


dieu et mon droit

by plutoandpersephone



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Politics, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, King Niles, Lap Sex, M/M, President Hank Anderson, Secret Relationship, prince connor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 98,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22308403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutoandpersephone/pseuds/plutoandpersephone
Summary: Niles pauses as he adds milk to Connor’s mug, leaving his own untouched. “I’d like you to go to the United States and meet with the president. It’s no secret that you’re more popular with the public - the modern rebel prince. You’ll make a better impression than the ice king.”“Fine.” Connor runs one finger absently over the rim of his teacup. “I’ll do it.”“Take some charm to the White House,” Niles says, smiling in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes. They’re in cold in the sunlight. “Show President Anderson that we aren’t as bad as he thinks us to be.”
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor, Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 394
Kudos: 516





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thank you with all of my heart to bee, mao and beth who sat with me and yelled nothing but support, advice and love throughout the entire creation of this fic.

Connor hates visiting the palace. It’s a recent development, honestly, but it doesn’t mean that his stomach sours any less as his driver turns onto the narrow approach, framed on either side by the high, pale walls of the entrance courtyard. Gravel crunches loudly beneath the wheels. 

As a young child, Connor had always looked upon the palace’s decorated ceilings and endless expanses of corridors with wide-eyed interest. It was his house, and yet there were places where he was forbidden to go, lush chambers and state rooms that stayed locked up all year round. In books, he would read about children finding hiding places under the stairs, or secreting sticky jars of jam out of the pantry and up to their rooms in the dead of night. 

He wondered what it would be like to hide himself away under the Grand Staircase, or to steal midnight snacks from their warren of kitchens and storerooms, occupied around the clock by one of their twelve staff. 

Connor spoke of it to his older brother, Niles, just once. He was ten, perhaps, or eleven, teetering on that fine line between childish acceptance of their situation and the adult understanding that there was no possible way to escape it. “It doesn’t seem normal,” Connor had said, tentative with the anticipation of Niles’ disapproval. “The way we live.”

Niles was a teenager, elegant and composed even then. He had regarded Connor over the top of the daily newspaper - _a future king must keep abreast of all global events._ “We’re not normal, Connor. Remember that.”

Now an adult, a year past his thirtieth birthday, Connor only visits the palace when it is absolutely necessary. He’d escaped its clutches in his eighteenth year, fleeing to the arms of a university that would equip him with two degrees and numerous life skills he would never be called upon to use in his role as crowned prince. It was a choice on Connor’s behalf - one taken scandalously without his mother’s approval - just rebellious enough to make him look modern, but not so outlandish that it would sully his public image in any kind of irreparable way. Ever the balance, ever the tightrope walk.

Today, Niles has called him to the palace to ask for a favour. Connor imagines the kind of favours that would be traded between a normal pair of brothers - help with painting a house front, maybe, minding the children for an afternoon. Not state visits and day-long liaisons with the media. 

All the same, duty calls. Isn’t that what they say?

As king, Niles has been a true divisor of public opinion. After their father’s death - sudden and deeply upsetting - there were those who questioned whether someone as young and inexperienced as him would be able to lead a country, navigating the fineries of such a historic institution as the monarchy. Ten years into his reign, there’s a mainstay of conservative society who continue to bandy about these same questions, even though Niles has proven himself, time and time over, as a more than competent successor.

Their mother still lives in the palace. Amanda Stern - maiden name unimportant, an unnecessary baggage discarded the second she married into a royal house - is their father’s second wife, after he became a young widower with two children. They have always called her Mother, and she is the only maternal figure that Connor can remember. She’s away on state business at the moment, their family’s face at one of the Japanese ambassador’s famous biannual balls. Thank goodness. Connor loves her dearly, but rather like a soldier might love the broad, decorated blade of his longsword. Preparing for a conversation with her is like preparing for battle.

He exits the car and is led through the familiar, loathsome corridors to the East Wing. It’s the same jigsaw puzzle of rooms where he and Niles used to play and sleep as children, but it is much changed with Connor’s absence and Niles’ ascension to the throne. His brother collects, rather like some regal magpie, and the walls are lined with sculptures and inventions and other pieces of art from all over the world.

Connor is greeted by a new canvas which stretches almost floor to ceiling: three wide blocks of yellow in differing shades, a stripe of bright blue resting between them like the sea glowing on the horizon. It makes Connor feel uneasy, as if something is approaching him, growing beneath the cracks in the paint. He swallows the feeling down and raps sharply on the white door to the right of the canvas.

His brother’s voice sounds from inside, clear and sharp. “Enter.”

Always a professional, even when there’s really no need to be.

“Niles, you know it’s me,” Connor says, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. “You can drop the act.”

His brother is standing before three tall mirrors, critically surveying his own reflection from every angle as their tailor circles him, holding up different swathes of fabric. Niles has taken to wearing his hair in a shorter style these days, and the clipped look makes him appear older, more severe. He doesn’t look so much like Connor anymore. He looks like their father. 

“You can leave us now, Chloe, thank you. Use those measurements for the grey satin and we’ll meet again next week.” Niles waves one of his hands and the tailor bows her head, retreating past Connor and through the open door behind him.

Niles smooths his hands on his trousers, giving himself a final look in the mirror. Connor knows he’s about to be berated before they’ve said more than ten words to each other.

“There is no act, Connor, you have to understand that.” Niles ushers him over to a small table by the window, where a tea set has been laid out. Steam curls from the spout of the teapot and into the air. “It’s who I am. It’s who you are.”

Connor doesn’t want to engage in this right now, all this talk of monarchy and duty and identity - it goes round and round in circles and they never come to any sensible or friendly conclusion. He’s tired, and the promise of Niles’ imminent proposition hangs heavy and conspicuous above their heads.

“I’m not sure I like your new painting,” he comments, as a means of diversion. 

Niles isn’t stupid, and Connor’s sudden change of subject earns him a subtlely quirked eyebrow.

“It’s a Rothko.” 

Connor shrugs, pouring some tea into each of their cups. “Why did you invite me here, Niles? I know it wasn’t to critique your artwork.”

Niles pauses as he adds milk to Connor’s mug, leaving his own untouched. The black tea shines a deep, honeyed amber in a wide beam of sunlight. It’s a familiar ritual, but it doesn’t serve to assuage any of Connor’s anxieties. 

“I’d like you to go to the United States and meet with the president.”

Neither brother has ever been one to sugarcoat their words where the other is involved, but still, Connor is unsure whether he’s understood correctly. His brow furrows. 

“Me?”

“You.”

“Why?” That’s the real uncertainty, after all, why Niles would send him on such an important and undoubtedly high profile detail, rather than go himself. “Why aren’t you going?”

Niles takes a sip of his tea, although it’s too hot to drink just yet. He’s buying time.

“The President visited London last month. He engaged in numerous talks with our Prime Minister.”

“I read the papers, Niles,” Connor says. “Just the same as you.”

Niles continues without missing a beat. “There are rumours abound that the President harbours some… anti-monarchist sensibilities, shall we say. That he sees us as a threat to Western democracy.”

Connor bristles at the suggestion. Yes, he has more than his fair share of internal conflict where his family institution is involved, but he doesn’t see it as the place of some outspoken Texan to publicly air his views on the subject. “It’s not his place to harbour such feelings.”

“Well, quite. But he does it all the same. And well within earshot of the Prime Minister, I don’t doubt.”

“Are you worried?” Connor asks the question, even though he doesn’t think it’s one to which Niles will give him an honest answer.

“Not particularly.” Niles shrugs, raising his cup to his lips once more. “But he’s popular, Connor; his polls are stronger than any president’s we’ve seen in a long time. He turned his home state a resounding blue for the first time in sixty years. Everyone will want to be on his good side.”

“Including us?” 

Niles nods. “Especially us.” His cup rattles onto its saucer. 

“And why aren’t you going?” Connor asks, for the second time.

“It’s no secret that you’re more popular with the public - the modern rebel prince. You’ll make a better impression than the ice king.” He’s harkening back to old newspaper headlines, printed over and over in the first few years of his reign. “A state visit will be organised, if you agree.”

Connor nods slowly. His understanding is beginning to fall into place. 

“Do I have any choice?” 

“You know you do,” Niles replies, and his tone clarifies that Connor, in fact, has absolutely no say in the matter whatsoever. He doesn’t know whether to be angry with his brother or not. Indifference and an aching, weary apathy settles itself between his shoulder blades.

“Fine.” Connor runs one finger absently over the rim of his teacup. In the flowerbeds below them, a gardener is clipping the deadheads off their mother’s prize roses. “I’ll do it.” 

“Take some charm to the White House,” Niles says, smiling in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes. They’re in cold in the sunlight. “Show President Anderson that we aren’t as bad as he thinks us to be.”

“I’ll do my best, Niles.”

Connor sleeps poorly for the next week, plagued by thoughts of being his family’s bright and shining representative in the face of a thundery republic.

* * *

The meeting is scheduled for the second week in July, post-independence celebrations, in the hopes that American spirits would be suitably high. It’s somewhat unusual for a member of the royal family to travel without company - be it a royal consort or other chaperone - but Connor has never marketed himself as a particularly usual member of the monarchy. He takes only a small security corps with him on the flight over the wild face of the Atlantic. 

They touch down on the tarmac just after midday, a humid afternoon. According to their pilot it’s the hottest of the year so far. The DC skyline shimmers like a mirage, pulled white and sharp from the depths of the Potomac.

Connor has visited the city several times before, but always in the shadow of his brother or his mother, and never to shake hands with a president who holds such forthright opinions on the monarchy. He’s being trusted to do well. The thought makes him proud and anxious in absolutely equal measure. 

He hasn’t been invited to any kind of official audience with the President. Instead there is to be a state dinner held in the White House - a cascade of chairmen and governors and mayors, hands to be shaken and names to be remembered. A baptism by fire. 

Connor has done his research on the President, of course. He might resent the weight of his position sometimes, but he knows as well as anyone that going into a meeting like this without preparing properly is rather like striding armourless into battle. Foolhardy, conceited, and liable to get you killed. 

So he studies up. Reads all the articles he can find on Henry “Hank” Anderson, born fifty-four years ago in Houston, Texas. Raised by army stock, and an active Lieutenant in the forces until injury forced him into politics. Divorced a decade ago, and never remarried. One son, a scruffy, curly-haired preteen whose patronage would likely be disputed were it not for his striking resemblance to the President himself. 

His first year in office has been strong, no doubt. One of the articles that Connor had read explained how a country in turmoil was united beneath the wide spread of his hand. Outspoken on his liberal views: blue enough. Red-blooded, headstrong and American: red enough. A fine balance to strike, Connor thinks. Perhaps they might have something in common. 

Connor is intrigued. He’d scrolled through numerous image galleries, watched a few speeches, one delivered right on the sunny green lawn outside the facade of the White House. Dependable, solid, with a clear, level gaze, Connor can’t help but think that America’s trust in this man has been well-placed. 

They finally meet a day after Connor’s arrival, and it is in a capacity so staid and official that the moment glistens around the edges like a well-cut diamond. Lines of people in their finery, all ready to be introduced to one another, all ready to sit in the White House’s premiere dining room and talk business. All prepared to drink copious glasses of champagne and pretend that it's not affecting them in the slightest. 

The advisor introducing him keeps it simple, sparing everyone Connor’s slew of inherited, ridiculous names. He’s grateful for that.

“Prince Connor. President Hank Anderson.”

_President Hank Anderson._

A hand, held out for Connor to shake. The broad, expert palm that served to unite a country. He’s taller than Connor expected, and rather than the black tie tuxedo that Connor knows is typical of these sorts of events, he’s wearing a navy suit. A man of the people, then. The material has a deep lustre in the golden light of the room, narrow, shining bands that reflect back in the blue of his eyes.

He’s more handsome than Connor had expected, too - clear eyes beneath a strong brow, his silver hair and beard trimmed close and sharp. The thought flashes through his mind before he has a chance to stop it. 

The President takes Connor’s hand. “Your Majesty.”

Connor bristles.

“My brother is the king,” he replies, low and curt. “You can refer to me as Your Highness.”

There’s a pause. Tension crackles between them, an electric wire singing in the wind. Conversations around them begin to falter, the other dignitaries noticing the sudden silence and lack of innocuous small talk flourishing between the pair of them. 

Connor expects the President to apologise, to bow his head modestly and correct his indiscretion. But he doesn’t. He laughs. _Laughs._ Bright and uproarious, as if Connor has told him the funniest joke that he’s heard in a long time.

“I can’t get used to all these royal titles,” he comments, directing the words out to the wider room as much as towards Connor. “Knew I’d do something wrong.” There a smattering of laughter, a few indulgent smiles from the officials gathered around them. Connor feels as if he’s been pushed onto the back foot. 

“It’s quite alright.” Connor’s brow knits tightly, and he does his best to smooth his expression out into something pleasant and inoffensive. Regardless of his own feelings towards his title, he can’t help but be surprised by the President’s blasé attitude. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.” 

“Likewise, Mr President,” Connor replies. He’s still reserving judgement about whether that statement is true or not. 

The President moves onto the next group of people, leaving Connor to politely discuss the merits of transatlantic travel with a guest from France. He finds himself half-watching the President as he moves around the room: being introduced and reintroduced, making conversation, laughing freely and loudly. He’s unlike any leader that Connor has ever met - he’s brash and a little wild, yes, but Connor wonders if that’s not why the people like him so much. 

As the guest of honour and the host, Connor and President Anderson are seated next to each other at dinner. The fact of this makes something wheel nervously in Connor’s stomach, tight coils of rope passing over and under one another. In his life, he’s rubbed shoulders with countless dignitaries, made small talk with bureaucrats and representatives from all around the world. He knows what makes a conversation tense and what makes it agreeable - he’s had that drummed into him from day one, his mother’s finger pressing in at the base of his neck. 

Generally, other members of his circle follow these rules alongside him. It makes things neat and bland and pleasant, exactly as they’re supposed to be. President Anderson makes him uneasy. Connor feels like he might not adhere as strictly to the unspoken code, flowing like a layline beneath the feet of every person in the room.

The tables are dressed extravagantly, shiny white china resting atop decorative plates with wide, gold-patterned rims. They’re beautiful in a way that Connor is not used to, flat and simple, rather different to the ornate and intricate tableware that they keep in the palace dining rooms. 

“This is lovely china, Mr President,” Connor comments. A compliment, inoffensive and sweet. Sure to keep the pair of them on a happy, level footing. 

President Anderson tilts his head to one side, regarding Connor with that earnest, level gaze. He has broad, high cheekbones, and the way he watches Connor makes him feel like he’s being examined beneath a very strong interrogation lamp. 

“You gotta call me Hank, really,” he says.

“Hank?” Connor had read the name enough times in print, but it feels strange and unwieldy in his mouth. No one has ever asked him to discard their title in favour of a more casual moniker. It’s a strange request. “I think that’s a little unorthodox.”

The President (Hank? Hank.) leans in towards him. Closely seated as they are at the long table, his knee jostles against Connor’s own. Connor considers pulling away, reaching out and drawing that professional distance taut between them again. 

He considers it. He doesn’t do it.

“You really want me to call you Your Highness all evening?” Hank mutters, his words low and confidential. He’s so close that Connor can see the darts of silver in his tie, flickering like an expensive shoal of fish. 

“Tradition dictates that you should.”

Hank laughs, a short, rough sound of surprise. 

“Uh huh, tradition. And what about you, Your Highness? What do you dictate?”

Connor feels that interrogation lamp flicker even brighter. What _does_ he think? He tries to remember the last time someone asked him expressly for his opinion on a matter, especially someone who looked so much like they genuinely cared what he had to say in response. 

In all honesty, he’s never really cared for the formal maze of titles that people are required to navigate upon meeting his family. As long as they are courteous to one another, what does it matter, at the end of the day? He’s said this to Niles once or twice before, but every time he’s been unceremoniously shot down for his efforts.

So what about now? Is it best to just leave it, gloss over the comment and resume his appraisal of the china? Or should he really speak his mind? He thinks about the positive impression that he’s supposed to be making; he thinks about what his mother and brother would tell him to do.

“I think in this scenario,” he says, placing his words carefully, as if he’s laying them along a balance that is liable to tip, “you should refer to me as Your Highness.”

“Of course.” Hank nods, his voice softened, as if Connor has disappointed him in some way. “Your Highness.”

A quiet moment passes between them. Hank turns to talk to the woman seated on his right, blonde and wide-eyed, with a whole crown of stars nestled into her hair.

As the first dish is laid out before them - dark spirals of vegetables and tuna fish sliced thinner than a fingernail - Hank looks back towards Connor.

“I am sorry about that back there,” he says, jerking his head towards the entrance where they had first been introduced. “All the mix up with the titles; I hope I didn’t embarrass you, it’s just-” He punctuates his words with a loose shrug. “Not many monarchies left these days.”

“It’s quite alright,” Connor replies. 

“That’s what you said before,” Hank says, and he smiles, showing the little gap between his two front teeth.

“Is it?”

“It is.” 

The rest of the dinner passes in a blur - glasses of champagne and plate after delicately decorated plate, conversation from all angles about all manner of different things. By the end of the evening, even though they are seated beside one another, Hank and Connor have barely traded another word. Connor feels the other man’s presence at his shoulder like a dark-edged shadow, powerful and heavy. 

For his few days stateside, Connor is staying in the President’s guest house. The words ‘guest house’ conjure images of pretty seaside cottages, drafty windows and low ceilings. The President’s guest house ticks absolutely none of these boxes. It’s a white fronted building on a broad plaza across the road from the executive residence, sleek and modern, with high, dark gates. The rooms are filled with art, priceless relics standing in every spare space. Presidents from across the years stare down at Connor from the walls, sleek oils and tiny, experimental sketches in thick glass frames. He falls asleep that night in slippery Egyptian cotton, rose coloured. He thinks of his brother, of his rooms filled with sculptures and great unnerving canvases. He thinks of his mother, and whether he has conducted himself properly this evening, whether he has behaved in a way that she would approve of.

And he thinks of the President. Hank, he’d said. That low voice, and how he’d dressed for dinner in a sleek business suit, not a tuxedo. How that hadn’t even mattered, really. He’d held the room steady nonetheless. 

The next morning, Connor awakes to the breakfast he requested the previous day and a notice that the President is going to join him in the guest house at his earliest convenience. 

“Do you know what the meeting will be about?” Connor asks the aide who brings him the message. The thought of a private audience with Hank Anderson sets him instantly on edge, but he knows that his voice comes off clear, self-assured, haughty. He’s hidden his nerves enough times to know when he’s been successful in doing so.

The man bows his head, addressing the patch of carpet between his highly polished shoes. “I’m afraid not, Your Highness.”

“Fine.”

“Only...” The aide’s gaze flickers up, and Connor can see that he is more of a boy than a man, surely five years Connor’s junior. His eyes are a watery green. “Mr President often likes to meet his guests of honour privately. After the state dinners. Likes to get to know them better, I think.” And then, as an afterthought, “Your Highness.”

He’s probably spoken out of turn, but Connor is grateful for it.

“Thank you. What’s your name?”

“Uh, Jerry. Sir - Your Highness.”

“Thank you, Jerry,” he replies. He makes a mental note to put in a good word for the boy, shaking like a leaf in the presence of royalty. “I’ll meet the President at noon.”

So the meeting is set. Hank has specified the front drawing room of the guest house, a light and airy space with white walls and high ceilings that remind Connor of home. The furniture suite is upholstered in a way that he’s sure his mother would like very much: white florals and deep coral. What that says about the taste of the previous guardian of the house, he’s not sure.

The President arrives absolutely on time - perhaps not such an unfaltering man of the people in that aspect - and with an entire entourage in tow. Connor knows exactly what it’s like to need a band of people alongside you to help you cross the street. Something like sympathy flurries in his stomach as he watches them through the wide bay window, approaching the house.

Hank is wearing a grey suit today, over a white shirt paired with a sleek blue tie. His party colour. He commands this space in a different way than the night before - there’s less of that bold, high-shine extravagance, less of that loud laugh. He exudes a quiet, expert calm. 

Connor stands when Hank enters the drawing room and is greeted with a firm handshake. Hank’s fingers wrap almost entirely around Connor’s own.

Hank addresses the group of aides and advisors standing in the hallway behind him: “You can leave us now, thank you.” There’s a quick, quiet flurry of nods and _Yes, Mr Presidents_ , and the white door closes on them.

They’re alone. Traffic passes by on the street outside, and Connor can hear voices and footsteps elsewhere in the house, but inside the room is a quiet, light bubble: as if they are the only two people left in the world. 

“Shall we sit?” Connor asks, and Hank nods. 

Connor expects him to take the seat opposite, separating the two of them with the glass coffee table, keeping a professional distance. Instead he sits in the armchair next to Connor’s own, his body turned in Connor’s direction as if they are old friends meeting for a chat in a downtown coffee shop.

Connor is sure he should be affronted by the familiarity. What he actually feels is reassured, comforted and, despite his best judgement, intrigued. Some part of him wants to get to know the Hank Anderson that lies beneath the title _President_. 

“Hope my humble guest house met your needs, Your Highness,” Hank says, grinning. They both know that it’s far from humble.

Connor pauses, a polite remark ready on the tip of his tongue. He swallows it down.

“I think in this situation,” Connor starts, his voice calm and deliberate, “it would be appropriate for you to call me Connor.”

Hank’s smile softens, the edge of his mouth turning an upward curve.

“Well then, Connor it is.”

On his tongue, Connor’s name sounds exotic and unfamiliar - long drawn out vowels, a lazy, liquid drawl at the edges. He’s not sure if he approves of how it sounds. He knows he’d like to hear it again.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long.

“So, Connor.” Hank pauses, letting Connor’s name hang in the air longer than is necessary. “Why are you here?” His tone is a touch brusque, but beneath that rests some genuine curiosity - as if he truly can’t fathom why Connor might want to offer the proverbial olive branch and visit him.

“I’m sorry?”

“Why are you here?” Hank repeats. “I know I haven’t been very…” He waves a hand loosely, looking for the right word. “ _Complimentary_ about the monarchy.”

Connor shakes his head, feeling his shoulders stiffen. That was Niles’ whole reasoning behind the visit, after all, to keep their institution safe in the eyes of those who might be turned against them. As much as he often despises his position, his love and sympathy for his brother outweighs all of that. 

“No, Mr President, you haven’t. I’m here to show you that we’re not all... what was it you said?” Connor recalls the interviews he read on the plane ride over here, whilst he was doing his utmost to armour himself against Hank’s offenses. “We’re not all born with silver spoons stuck in our... and I think the quotation stops there, doesn’t it?”

Hank laughs - tips his head right back and laughs! - at the memory of his previous indelicacies. It’s as if he’s not ashamed of them, as if he doesn’t worry about the consequences that might befall him if he speaks his mind. Connor can’t help but find the whole thing admirable.

“I did say that, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“Well, go on then, prove me wrong,” Hank crosses his legs, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. “Tell me about yourself.”

Connor falters a moment before deciding on the usual spiel: details of his various peerages, weekend pursuits, country homes. Clearly, Hank’s not convinced, because he watches Connor with a hard, narrowed expression. A small spark of panic flares in his chest. He can’t be the right person to convince the president of the true humanity of the monarchy; he’s going to send all of them to hell in a fiery coup d’etat. 

Perhaps he’s being a touch dramatic. He stops speaking. 

“What about your brother?” Hank asks, after a moment. “What’s he like?”

Connor wonders on the correctness of asking someone what the king of a country is “like”. He doesn’t really know what to say. How can he sum up the wild, glacial expanses of his brother’s personality in just a few words?

He has to settle in the end. “He’s an excellent king.” 

Hank makes a derisive sound, and when he speaks, most of the joviality has seeped from his voice. “Lonely job though, right?”

That same panic crackles within Connor like a livewire. “It can be,” he says, carefully treading around the information that is not his own to share. He thinks of his brother: professional, duty-bound, and he suspects, as Hank has rightly predicted, lonely. “He’s very good at what he does.”

“And what about you? No princess?” Hank asks. “No one keeping you company in that golden palace?”

“I don’t live in the palace,” Connor says shortly. “And no, there’s no princess.” 

Hank cocks an eyebrow, silently asking him to elaborate. Connor takes a breath, and with it - for what is there to lose - throws all his caution out on the wind.

“I’m gay.”

The words hover between them, wheel and turn in the bright air. Hank looks, in a very professional and politically appropriate way, like Connor has just punched him in the chest. 

“It’s not exactly a secret,” Connor continues. He didn’t expect Hank to look quite so shocked.

“I didn’t know that,” Hank says. His voice is suddenly soft, as if Connor’s confession has taken a file to all the harder edges. In contrast, the expression on his face is tight, some controlled emotion rolling beneath the surface. 

“It made national news a decade ago,” Connor explains, “just after Niles’ coronation. Mother worked hard to control the way it was released to the public, lest it draw the attention away from Niles. Honestly, I think he was glad to have some of the pressure taken off him for a while.”

Hank blinks once, twice, slowly. “A decade ago?”

“Give or take.” 

It feels as though many, many more years have passed. Yet in the same vein, it seems as though only yesterday he was waking up to all the rumours about him plastered on the front page of the Times. Rumours that were absolutely true, of course, but the public didn’t know that yet. His mother had orchestrated the whole thing after that - steely and efficient - a press conference, a scripted confession, contracts signed left and right about what was and wasn’t allowed to be reported. It was a steady stream of information fed to the public, no crashing of an international scandal, the reputation of the monarchy handled like the most delicate crystal. Gentle hands, slow movements, and the public opinion of them remained intact.

Connor has never made any secret of his sexuality, and in recent years it has garnered him more popularity with the younger generation, those who view his family less favourably. Perhaps that was the angle he should have taken with Hank from the beginning: popular, modern, more human than the ice sculpture persona his brother portrays. 

“My son was born then,” Hank says. He’s turned himself away from Connor again, his hands resting on his thighs. “Cole. He’ll be ten in September.”

Of course. Connor remembers something that he read alongside the pictures of Hank holding the hand of a child with the same slightly wonky, gap-toothed smile as him. “Congressman speaks out about child cured by life-saving new medicine; breakthrough for premature births.” No wonder he hadn’t been focusing on the carefully buried news from a monarchy an ocean away.

“Cole doesn’t live with you in the White House, does he?” Connor asks.

Hank shakes his head. “No. He lives with his mom in Houston. She thought it was better for him to grow up there.” Hank’s voice is flat at the mention of his ex-wife. “I guess I agree - Capitol’s no place for a kid.”

“So you live alone?” Connor knows what it’s like, and the thought of Hank all alone in the executive suite of the White House makes his chest tight. 

“Just me and the dog.”

Connor’s mother has her corgis, fat little lapdogs that tumble at her feet and demand to be picked up when they deem their walks too long. Connor wonders what kind of dog Hank has. Something big and rangy, if pets are supposed to look like their owners.

“I like dogs. Are you really from Texas?” The thought has been in his mind since they first spoke the previous evening. 

“Jeez.” Hank’s hand rubs a restless line on his thigh as he speaks. “I thought I was supposed to be asking the questions.”

“I think you’ve had your fair share.” 

Hank laughs at that, not so raucous and free as before, but a chuckle in the back of his throat. He seems satisfied now that Connor has removed some of his mask of duty, shown interest, shown humanity. “Fair enough,” he says. “Houston, Texas - born and bred.”

“It doesn’t sound like it,” Connor replies. Clearly, over the years, Hank has worked to push out some of that Texas drawl. Now his accent is DC-ready, polished and professional, fit for speeches in capitals all over the world. 

“Wait until you meet some of the Texan delegates.” Hank grins. “I’ll slip right back into it.”

It’s a promise of more visits. That has to be a good thing. 

“I look forward to it,” Connor says.

The rest of their meeting passes in a similarly amicable way - no deep conversation about the fractured relationship between their two countries, between the differences in their two establishments, but simple small talk. Connor tells him about where he lives in London, Hank tells him about one of the dramas organising the food for the previous night’s dinner. Knowing Hank better now, Connor thinks that this is the line he should have taken in the first place.

And he’s a good man, Connor can see that much. He’s not brash and blustery as Connor had originally thought; he’s down to earth, intelligent, kind. 

Connor wonders what Hank thinks of him. 

The door of the guest house closes behind the president an hour and a half later, and Connor is left to his own devices for the rest of the day before his flight home the next morning. He finds himself thinking it a shame that his brother hadn’t organised a longer visit. He finds himself eager to return.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank and Connor see each other again. Connor receives an invitation.

“So, tell me about it.”

Niles crosses his ankles before him, reclining on his seat in the sun-soaked patio. His back loosens a touch from its usual ramrod straightness, the most relaxed Connor ever has the privilege of seeing him. On the table between them, two tall glasses of lemonade sweat in the afternoon heat. 

“I think it was a profitable visit,” Connor says. 

He’s not sure if profitable is the right word. Despite his initial reluctance, he’d actually enjoyed his visit to the White House. The time that he had spent with President Hank Anderson, albeit short, had felt so relaxed and so natural that he almost feels embarrassed by it. He knows that’s not the right way to explain it to his brother, particularly considering the high importance and profile of his state visit. 

He keeps his expression smooth and professional. Niles quirks an eyebrow behind the frame of his sunglasses.

“Anderson’s been asked about it,” Niles continues. “He’s mentioned you to the press.”

The rest of Connor’s July had been long and busy, filled with galas, ambassadorial balls, the royal box at the summer tennis: green lawns and the crushing defeat of their only hope of a national victory in the second round. Watching the final - Austria vs Slovakia - Connor couldn’t help but wonder if President Anderson might have attended had a representative from his country been donning their whites and walking out onto the court. They would have sat, knee to knee again, in the cream-edged box. 

He hasn’t had much time to read the papers, aside from those pieces which have been deemed pertinent to his current engagements. Although he knew that discussion of their meeting would be unavoidable, the news that Hank has been talking about him makes a shiver run up his spine, a tiny electric spark, blue-white. 

“Has he?”

Niles nods before picking his tablet up from where it’s lying on the table between them and flipping it open. He shows Connor a carefully curated selection of newspaper pages - because of course Niles would assemble a slideshow to act as a prompt in a casual conversation between brothers.

 _The Humanity of the Monarchy_ , the first one reads. A picture of Connor stretches along one side of the page; it’s a photo from last year, taken at the trooping of the colour, and he looks regal and haughty in his ceremonial garb. It always makes him feel a little uncertain, even ashamed, seeing himself dressed up like this. Hank takes up the other side of the article, smiling that loose, broad smile, that little gap between his teeth very prominent. Niles swipes onto the next page before Connor even has a chance to look properly. _A Prince for the People_. Next. _The Special Relationship: Repaired?_ Next.

There are five or six more article headings before Niles is done. There are a lot of pictures of Hank, some of them that Connor recognises, some of them newer. One of the tabloids, a publication that Connor is surprised Niles even looked at, presents a picture of him in his Texas home, lounging on a wide front veranda. 

“I’ll send the pieces on to you,” Niles says, placing the tablet back down on the table. He wraps his fingers around one of the cool glasses of lemonade. “You should read them. You did a good job.”

The highest praise one can hope for from a Stern, Connor thinks. 

“Thank you, Niles.”

“Your visit to Canada next month, for the closing ceremony of the Commonwealth Games. Do you think you could extend it by a few days?”

It seems like a non-sequitur, but Connor doesn’t question it. Niles steers these conversations, after all, half-business, half-family affair.

“Why?” Connor asks, puzzled. “The Canadian Prime Minister is only expecting me for the weekend.”

“You misunderstand me,” Niles replies, settling back in his seat once more. Connor decides against a sharp retort. “Pay a visit to Washington, DC for a few days. Stay in the embassy. Use your visit to Canada as an excuse and keep building our relationship with President Anderson.”

The thought of seeing President Anderson outside the page of a newspaper, of being in his intense, brilliant presence again, makes Connor’s stomach clench. Nerves? Excitement? It’s hard to tell.

He swallows.

“Won’t the President have better things to do than to see me again?”

Niles shrugs, lowering his sunglasses so that he can look over the rim at his brother. In the sunlight, his eyes are so blue that they’re almost white. “Perhaps. But he seems to like you, Connor. You’ve broached the kind of important diplomatic path that we’ve only been dreaming of. I’m sure we can arrange something.”

Of course, when Niles promises an arrangement, an arrangement is made.

Connor flies out on the first day of August; heat rises from the tarmac at Heathrow Airport in thick ribbons, the ground baked dry and dusty beneath a sweltering sky. The weather in the Capitol is reported to be just as hot, and Connor throws up some silent thanks for the Americans and their obsessive air conditioning.

He’s been sent a dossier of the week’s events by one of the palace advisors, and he opens up the files once he’s in his seat. He reads the pages about Canada first. That’s the real reason he’s travelling, after all, that’s the engagement he’s been signed up for. Only when he’s content that he’s properly briefed about who he’s going to meet and what will be expected of him does he scroll to the pages about Washington, DC. 

They’re much briefer, less than a third of the whole document. The first thing he notices is that they explain how he will be staying at the President’s guest house, rather than in the British embassy. Strange. Niles is not normally one to go back on his word.

Connor cranes around in his seat to catch the eye of one of his own aides. “I thought we were staying at the embassy?” 

North, competent and unsmiling, looks back at him. He likes to travel with as small an entourage as possible - it seems ostentatious to travel with hordes of onlookers if he can help it - but his mother and brother always insist that he brings some kind of advisory and security detail with him. Sometimes even one extra person feels like too much.

“That was the plan, Your Highness,” she explains, flipping through some notes on her own tablet. “Apparently the President called yesterday morning and insisted that you stay in his guest house.”

“Oh.” Connor tries not to let too much emotion seep into the lines of his face. The beat of his heart has crept high into his chest, some echoing, unidentified feeling. He’s nervous, probably, at the change of plan.

“I can call ahead, if you’d rather keep to the original plan,” North says, a concerned knot between her perfect brows.

“No, no.” Connor shakes his head. “The guest house is fine.”

The distant hum of the engines runs a soothing constant in the back of Connor’s mind as he drifts in and out of restless sleep. He dreams of his brother, back at home, of his veiled pride in Connor’s efforts so far. He imagines Niles’ discussions with their mother, so often disappointed in Connor’s less than regal escapades; he imagines what pride looks like in her features. And he sees the President, too - Hank - floating just out of reach in the corners of his mind, a figure barely tangible: silver-shot navy and white and the rose-coloured sheets of his guest house.

When they touch down on the runway at Dulles Airport, they are welcomed by a far smaller crowd than the one that had greeted Connor on his first visit only a few weeks ago. This visit has not been highly publicised, although doubtless it will garner some attention now, if the bright flashes from the onlookers’ phone cameras are anything to go by. He gives a polite wave and a smile and hopes that he looks presentable in the evening heat, tired and rumpled from the flight. 

A couple of sleek black cars are waiting to drive them into the centre of the city. As they cross the Potomac, the sun is sinking into the horizon behind them, and the sky ahead is stained a pale, watery pink. The Washington Monument stands proud and familiar in the distance, a white finger, a shade, almost the same colour as the sky.

They arrive in the guest house to find that the rooms have been made up for them, a selection of freshly pressed linens and cool drinks laid out, like one of the world’s most attentive hotels. Connor half expects to find a chocolate on his pillow. It’s too late for dinner and Connor doesn’t imagine that he will see anyone from the President’s offices today, which, after nine hours in an airplane cabin, isn’t really a bad thing.

However, as he’s dressing for bed, there’s a sharp rap at his door - and he opens it to reveal, not North as he had expected, still dressed in her suit, but an unfamiliar woman. She’s dressed smartly, with her dark hair slicked close to her head, and the look she gives him is calm and almost completely void of emotion. Connor wonders what happened to the stumbling, stuttering aide who he’d been greeted by before.

“Sorry to inconvenience you, Your Highness,” she says, glancing none too surreptitiously at the slippers on his feet, his pyjama trousers that hang loosely around his waist. He wonders what she had expected. Cream silk and monograms, perhaps. 

“No inconvenience,” he replies. “Only - I didn’t expect to see anyone today.”

“I spoke with your advisor,” she continues, her hard expression slightly mollified, “she explained that you’d rather hear a message in person than have it relayed to you through your team.”

Connor can’t help but smile. That much is true and he’s glad that North knows it. He nods.

“The President would like to invite you for tea tomorrow in the White House.” After she speaks, she consults the small clipboard under her arm, as if checking that she hasn’t missed anything. “He apologises for not delivering the message himself, but he’s flying in from Houston this evening.”

Connor imagines his own reaction had he opened his bedroom door and seen the President standing there. Would he have embarrassed himself? Probably. The image of Niles personally delivering a message to one of their guests floats to the surface of his mind, and he almost laughs at the absurdity of it.

“Thank you.” 

“You are welcome to bring any members of your team with you,” she says, “although I must let you know that the security detail provided by the President will be more than adequate. A car will arrive to collect you at noon.”

Connor frowns. He can see most of the White House from his bedroom window. 

“A car? Is that really necessary?”

She gives him a look that can only be described as withering. “I think so, Your Highness.”

He doesn’t bother arguing, instead he dismisses her with a polite nod and perfunctory goodnight. 

When he finally falls asleep, he sleeps fitfully - putting it down to the time difference and the rest that he had taken on the flight over here. He tells himself that he doesn’t dream.

* * *

The China Room in the White House is white-panelled and sumptuously decorated, the deep red shelves that line the walls are filled with all manner of ceramics, gold-edged plates and wide deep dishes, glasses that throw rainbows onto the walls. There’s very little furniture in the room, but a table and two chairs have been set up in the middle of the rich burgundy carpet, its pile swirled with feathers and flowers and birds perched on branches. The space is cool and cosy, and outside, the rolling lawn looks unnaturally green in the sunlight. 

One of the House’s employees shows Connor to the door. He has chosen to leave his own team behind, as suggested.

“The President is waiting for you.”

Connor releases a breath that he didn’t even realise he had been holding. “Thank you.”

President Anderson is seated at the small table in the centre of the room, and he gets to his feet as soon as Connor enters, striding to close the difference between them. He extends his hand for Connor to shake. 

“Your Highness. It’s good to see you again.” The President smiles, making a joke of his own ineptitude, a reminder of their first encounter.

Connor lets the door click shut behind them before he speaks. “You must call me Connor.” A beat, a sun-soaked second. “Hank.”

“Of course.”

“I have to thank you again for allowing us to stay in your guest house,” Connor says, as they take their seats. On the table, there’s a pot of tea and two cups, along with a plate of sandwiches, cut delicately into squares. It all seems far too quaint for the President. It’s been done to impress Connor.

“It’s that good old Southern hospitality,” Hank replies, amusement humming lazily beneath his words. “Can’t let go of it.” He’s dressed more casually today, leaving his suit behind in favour of a pale printed shirt and grey slacks, his top button undone. Connor feels overdressed in his own finely pressed shirt and narrow, dark green tie. He touches a finger to the edge of his starched collar, self-conscious.

“I would have been perfectly happy to stay in the embassy,” Connor explains. 

Hank shakes his head, insistent. “Now, that wouldn’t have been right.”

“It must have been an inconvenience, though, getting the whole house opened up for us.” Connor knows how much work it is to set rooms in the palace when they have foreign visitors, days of silent, undercover preparation from the service staff. 

“No inconvenience at all,” Hank says, and as he speaks he holds Connor’s gaze with a firm, narrowed intensity. “Although next time you can stay in the Executive suites of the House, if you’d prefer.”

Next time. Connor holds their eye contact. “I’m the rebel prince, you know. I’m perfectly content with just one room.”

That makes Hank laugh, and the ice, the staid formality drawn between them, cracks right down the middle. 

“Shall I?” Connor asks, placing his hand against the warm china of the teapot handle. 

Hank inclines his head, gesturing loosely as if to say: be my guest.

“This is a lovely space,” Connor continues conversationally, carefully watching the stream of deep amber tea as he fills both their cups. It’s a little dark, been sitting in the pot too long. Definitely something that his mother would have complained about, and he gets a small thrill from knowing that he’s just going to keep his mouth shut against that comment.

He can feel Hank watching him. He pours milk into the tea.

“It’s used by the First Lady for her appointments,” Hank explains with a shrug. “It hasn’t been used in a little while, I’ll admit.” 

Of course - and Connor hadn’t forgotten - Hank is all alone in this incredible, ostentatious place. 

Their chairs have been positioned parallel to the window so that they can both see out into the gardens. As they sip their tea, they watch as a pair of men run along a path about a hundred metres down. A dog lollops in between them.

“That’s Sumo,” Hank says, nodding in the direction of Connor’s gaze. 

“Your dog?” 

Hank nods. “I like to get out and run with him myself but, y’know. Other business to attend to.”

Connor hopes the touch of heat that rises in his face can be attributed to the glare of sunlight streaming in through the window. 

“I’ve been reading about you,” Hank says, as casual and nonchalant if he were making a comment about the weather. 

Connor feels his chest tighten, the warmth in his face spreading down over his jaw and into his collar. The reaction is unprofessional, certainly, but he can’t help imagining Hank searching for his name on the internet, flicking through any number of photos of his face, articles about his behaviour outside of his royal engagements. He raises his own cup to his lips and takes a sip of the hot, strong tea, before carefully setting it back in its saucer. It doesn’t rattle.

“Hm? And?” 

“I’m sorry I didn’t do it earlier,” Hank answers, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You’ve had an interesting life.”

“Like I said, the press called me the rebel prince. You’ve got to earn a title like that.”

Hank laughs and leans forward with it, resting one elbow on the table. Another habit that the palace would no doubt disapprove of, Connor thinks, delighted. 

“Would it be rude of me to ask about it?” Hank asks.

“Oh, definitely.” Connor saw the sparkle in Hank’s blue eyes as he asked the question, and he hopes that Hank catches the levity in his own voice. “Go on.”

And so they talk, long into the afternoon, their conversation deeper and far more winding than the small talk and pleasantries of their previous meeting. Hank asks about Connor’s childhood, what it was like growing up under the weight of the crown and with the knowledge that his brother would eventually have to take up the mantle of King. He asks, too, about Connor’s ill-fated and very public relationship with the photographer Markus Manfred - a messy affair that ended badly and divided the people’s opinion of Connor squarely down the middle.

“Mother didn’t like him,” Connor comments, taking a bite of a sandwich. “I should have known that it was doomed to failure from the very beginning. He did take some very nice pictures of me, though.”

Hank’s eyebrows raise. 

“I’m sure the palace had them all taken down,” Connor adds, and he’s sure that he imagines the look of disappointment that flits across Hank’s face, come and gone as quick as a passing shadow. 

In turn, Connor asks about Hank’s son, and his ex-wife, and what it’s like to be the spearhead of a country with no one to come home to at the end of the day. Hank’s popular, sure, but there are still those who dislike him, who slate his policies and his personality in very public forums. Connor pads tentatively around the question of whether Hank would consider getting married again.

“Hell no,” Hank laughs, pouring the last of the tea into their cups. “Too busy for that.”

When Connor finally glances at his watch, he’s surprised to see that several hours have passed, bright and easily in Hank’s company. He’s never experienced anything like it, at least not with somebody who he’s supposed to be doing business with, in the vaguest, most diplomatic sense of the word. He’s disappointed when Hank brings their time to a close. 

“I’m sorry there wasn’t a big state dinner this time,” Hank says, getting to his feet. 

So much of the time they've been together has been spent seated - in lounges and at dining tables - that Connor has forgotten quite how tall Hank is. Connor never feels like a small man, a neat six foot is enough to stand several strong inches above any visiting dignitaries, but in Hank’s presence… He has to tilt his head back to look at him, his eyes squinted against the lowering light. 

“It’s not a problem,” Connor replies, shaking his hand. Hank’s palm is very smooth, sun-warmed. “I enjoyed myself. Can I say that?”

“Sure you can,” Hank says, and the sunlight behind him throws his strong features into a shadowy relief. “If it’s the truth.”

Connor nods, and there’s no falseness in it. He’s been taught to flatter and charm since the day he was born, and regardless of any resentment of that fact, it still comes naturally to him. But with Hank? Connor finds he doesn’t have to lie.

“It’s Labor Day next month.” Hank poses it as an offhand, last minute comment, his hand hovering a couple of inches from the door handle. They don’t have any such celebration where Connor comes from, although he’s not unfamiliar with what the holiday might bring. “I’d like to invite you for the weekend, if you can.”

Connor wants to say yes. He wants to accept like it’s an invitation from a newly made friend, a casual engagement - not a diplomatic olive branch from one of the leaders of the free world. He has to catch himself before speaking.

“I’ll have to consult with my brother. And the palace,” Connor replies. “Thank you, though.”

Hank nods. He understands, of course he does, he’s tied into this unique lifestyle as much as Connor is, even though they’ve entered into it down different pathways. 

“I’m sorry it had to be such a brief visit,” Hank says, as they part at the doorway. “Good luck in Toronto.”

The door clicks shut between them, leaving Connor standing with one of Hank’s stony-faced aides, the sound of the car engine rumbling and ready behind them. 

They are set to leave for Canada on the first flight the next morning. Connor excuses himself as soon as he can, on the premise of having no other official business to attend to and with the hopes that he will be able to get enough sleep to deal with the early start.

That night, he dreams. He dreams of Canada in the snow and in the summer heat, a blizzard swirling thickly against the bright blue sky. He’s pleasantly warm, not cold, like the sun is beating down on his face through a garden window. Hank is there again, no longer a shadow flickering in the corner of his eye, but a real figure, solid and defined. Connor thinks he speaks, but the sound of his voice is drowned out by the howling snow.

He wakes feeling well rested.

* * *

The weekend in Toronto is unremarkable, and certainly there are members of the Canadian welcoming party who are disappointed to see Connor and not his brother. Their athletes have done well - a testament to their government’s increased public spending - and Connor makes sure to put on his brightest, proudest smile as they parade through the stadium. Camera flashes fall like confetti.

Sure enough, Connor’s face appears in numerous online publications the following day, mostly as an accompaniment to innocuous, unbiased articles about the Commonwealth games and the successes or failures of various countries. Alongside these, there are a few articles about his stopover in Washington, DC. He doesn’t read any of them.

He arrives home on Monday morning, and before he’s even had a chance to complain about jet lag or to shower the cloy of the airplane cabin from his shoulders, his phone rings. He’s standing in his living room when it begins to buzz in his coat pocket, urgent and aggravating. It’s Niles. Connor doubts that he’s calling so promptly to find out about the intricacies of the Canadian athletics programme. 

“Couldn’t this have waited until tomorrow?” Connor asks, sitting down heavily on the sofa. He doesn’t have the energy for delicacy right now. “I’m barely out of the air.”

“Hello, Connor.” Niles paints over Connor’s sharp tone with a fine, polite sheen. “How was Canada?”

“Canada was fine,” he replies. North is hovering in the open doorway, the irregular shapes of Connor’s luggage around her calves. He gestures at her to close the door, and she retreats backwards into the hallway.

“And Washington?”

Straight to the point, more or less. Niles has learnt some tact over the years, learnt to talk around a subject and be less blunt, but Connor has always been able to see right through to the root of his intentions. It makes his head hurt.

“Profitable, again,” Connor replies. He knows that he should be more explicit about the whole thing and give Niles a proper diplomatic debrief, but he’s tired. He’s tired and some part of him, buried deep, doesn’t want to give up all of the details of his meeting with Hank. It feels secret, somehow, a moment just for them. That quiet, sunlit room, the green lawn, something away from the public eye.

Niles doesn’t seem to notice Connor’s hesitation. 

“The press has been very positive about you,” he continues. Down the line, Connor can hear the rustling over newspapers - Niles shifting them over each other on the surface of a table. It must be a special occasion if he’s sent out for the printed hard copies of the daily publications instead of just flipping open his tablet.

“‘Repairing the special relationship’, it says. ‘A diplomatic success’.” There’s a pause as Niles reads, precising the most important information. “‘Although Prince Connor is not the palace’s usual figurehead’ - reputation aside etcetera, etcetera - ‘he seems to have done an admirable job of showing this country at its best to our overseas cousins’.” 

Connor can’t help the little flicker of pride that glows in his chest. 

“I met with the Prime Minister at the weekend,” Niles adds, “he already seems more positive. Positive about _us_ , I mean. There’s still work to do, but… You’ve done a good job so far, Connor.”

“Thank you, Niles.” 

He wonders how his brother feels about his recent successes. Jealous? Or proud? Perhaps a bitter cocktail of the two.

There’s a hissing silence at the other end of the line. 

“What is the President like?” Niles asks, after a beat.

Connor doesn’t really know how to answer that. He’s kind, he thinks. He’s clever. I actually enjoy having a conversation with him. When he smiles, his eyes crinkle at the corners. 

In the end, he settles. “I can see why the American people like him.”

It’s not really an answer, and Niles makes a small, dissatisfied noise. 

“He’s invited me to Washington for Labor Day weekend,” Connor continues quickly, lest Niles delve deeper into Connor’s personal opinions. “I said I’d consult with you.”

He can practically hear Niles’ smile down the phone, icy and smooth.

“Well, of course you must go. We’ll arrange it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come and find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/andpersephone)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Labor Day weekend, Connor is brave.

September arrives before Connor knows it. The last days of August blow through into the new month, hot and blustery, full of summer storms. Connor spends the bank holiday weekend in one of his family’s coastal properties - a cottage with white pebble dashed walls and uneven sash windows. The press diverts some of its attention away from the monarchy and focuses instead on the predicted heat in the upcoming sessions of parliament. It seems the Prime Minister has been making waves beyond voicing his easily-influenced opinions of the monarchy. Niles handles the whole thing with an expert hand, watching it from his gilded tower.

The journey to Washington, DC is almost beginning to feel familiar now. He follows the vast expanses of Dulles Airport as if he has known them beneath his feet for years; the city’s silhouette against the bright sky looks like a puzzle piece, the edge of which might fit perfectly against that of his own city. 

Together, the President and the palace have created a far more sprawling itinerary for him this trip. Inspired by his earlier successes, a number of meetings have been organised with different American dignitaries and officials: the ambassador to the United States, a number of prominent congressmen. It’s unconventional for a member of the royal family to meet with these kinds of figures and Connor finds himself anxiously unable to predict exactly how any of the conversations are going to run. What he does know is that Niles has entrusted them into his hands. That makes a flame of pride lick up against the inside of his ribs. 

They land in Washington on Friday evening and Connor is presented with a dossier that shows he has events scheduled right through the Saturday. To his disappointment, none of them are to be with the President himself. He buries it all beneath a calm smile, beneath a measured perusal of the itinerary documents: a breakfast appointment, a tour of the Capitol Building, an early dinner and late drinks with several of Texas’ congressmen. He keeps himself impenetrable, a practised stillness drawn tight over the hammering in his chest, over the knots in his stomach.

When he reads his place of residence for his long weekend, something pulls those winding knots a little tighter. He tells himself it’s just the stress of the whole trip, the uncertainty about meeting such high profile figures by himself, all of it stacking up into a shaking, unsteady heap.

_Lincoln Bedroom, The White House._

“Is this right?” He taps the screen where the address is listed and North, seated beside him in their car, leans over to check. 

“Quite right, Your Highness.” She nods. “I believe the President arranged it himself.”

“And where will you be staying?”

“Across the road in the guest house. The White House has arranged security for your rooms but if you’re worried, I can-”

“No, thank you. No need.” Connor flips his tablet closed. He hopes she doesn’t notice how his fingers tremble against the polished leather cover.

Saturday passes, Connor thinks, without a hitch. The President’s men deal with Connor at arm’s length, treating him with a neutral wariness that makes him certain that they have not quite made their minds up about him yet, no matter what praises the President has been singing. Conversation is not easy but neither is it stilted; it runs in a steady, cautious current of small talk and discussion of recent global political events. He thinks he detects an easing in their uncertain attitudes towards him by the end of the night, although he suspects it might have more to do with the sparkles in the champagne than those in his wit.

As unlikely as it is, that night he can’t help but hope he’s going to run into the President along one of the richly carpeted corridors of the White House. Perhaps in his slippers, an apologetic bumping of shoulders in the low light. One of the House staff, tasked with showing him through to the Lincoln Bedroom, ruins that fleeting hope by explaining that the President’s rooms are in the opposite wing, and that he will not be returning to them until later on that evening. 

“That’s the Treaty Room,” the aide adds conversationally, gesturing to a closed door as they pass by it on the way to Connor’s room. “It wasn’t being used for much - mostly ceremonial, you see - so Mr President had it converted to his private office.”

The Lincoln Bedroom is smaller than the one Connor had stayed in whilst at the guest house. There’s a wide, dark fireplace set in the centre of the far wall, its mantle mounted by an extravagant, gilt-edged mirror. The bed frame is mahogany, the headboard stretching almost to the ceiling in a huge, smooth arch. It feels neater than his previous residence - a place more suited to him. It isn’t home, but he feels an incipient familiarity, and it doesn’t take him long to get settled. These sheets are crisp and white, run through with golden bands like woven sunbeams.

Sunday morning dawns grey and overcast - typical of a holiday when many of the country will have the next day off, hoping to enjoy the last of the summer sunshine. Connor has been invited to see the President give a Labor Day speech, addressing the great swathe of the National Mall, all those people, invested and casual supporters alike, who have decided that listening to their leader speak is the best way to spend their extended weekend.

There’s a frisson of worry among the House staff that the threatening rain will cause less of a crowd to gather in Union Square, their eyes turned eagerly towards the steps of the Capitol building. Connor doesn’t mind. Maybe he’s brought the rain with him. He pulls on an overcoat that’s the same colour as the clouds.

Although most of the public have to stand to hear the President’s speech, lining the stretch of verges and pathways, there is a small stand of raised seating to the side of the podium, its sides decorated in ribbons: blue, white, red. This is where they direct Connor, sequestered, and he can feel the roving eye of the press focused firmly on him. Bright camera flashes. He does his best to look appropriate: regal but relatable, interested yet poised.

He wonders what it would be like to be down there in the crowd. It’s not extensive - nothing like the swollen banks one sees at inaugural speeches - but there are still several thousand people milling about, all pointed towards one common goal. He imagines the atmosphere between the bodies, the crackle and swelling of voices, the eyes focused upwards on the white dome against the grey sky. What would it be like to watch the President on one of the two screens that have been set up several hundred metres from the steps? To hear his voice echo on one of the loudspeakers? Would Connor like him? If he were just any member of the public and not himself, foisted into this position, what kind of draw would he feel towards him?

He has little time to dwell on such immaterial questions. Before he knows it, a hush falls over those gathered, a drop in volume as immediate and sudden as the flicking of a light switch. 

President Hank Anderson takes to the stage.

He’s dressed in a black suit and matching wool coat, the stiff cut of which broadens his shoulders into a hard, imposing silhouette - confident and assertive. As he approaches the microphone, the expression on his face is calm and collected, far more serious than Connor has ever seen him in person. His carefree laughter echoing in the White House dining room seems a long way away now. He’s had his hair and beard trimmed close and neat, presumably in preparation for today’s public appearance, and even from a distance, Connor can see the silver-blue glint of his eyes. 

A fine mist begins to fall from the sky. In the crowd, coloured domes of umbrellas pop up like flowers in a field. There is a small canopy set up over the podium itself, and Hank does not seem to register the rain.

“Thank you,” Hank begins. He lets the two words hang in the air for a moment, sincere and heavy, rolling out over the hushed Mall. “Thank you to all of you for being here today. Thank you too, to those people who cannot be here - those who are working today, running our factories, our hospitals.”

There’s a smattering of applause from the lawns, and Hank pauses again, as if he is allowing his words to stretch out and reach those who are absent. 

“If I know one thing, it is that this country would be nothing without the labour of its people.”

Hank is a spectacular orator. He speaks in a simple, frank way, no bluff and bluster thrown about to pad out his words. He talks about his family first, his hard-working parents, and when he mentions his father, a quiet, tight sadness enters his voice. It speaks multitudes about the relationship - confusing, loving, hard - that Hank must have had with a now absent figure. He talks about himself, too, how he considered joining the police force but ended up in the army, how his career in politics was one born by accident. 

“I never thought this would happen,” he says. The crowd laughs at that, friendly and warm, all of them nestled in the palm of his hand. The rain falls harder. One of the advisors at Connor’s side opens a black umbrella to protect the pair of them.

It is Hank’s honesty that has made him so popular with the public. He speaks gratefully of his citizens and each one of them believes his gratitude; he accepts the failings of the country as things that need to be solved, rather than mistakes to be glossed over. He’s relatable but appropriately distant, endlessly competent in a rough, salt of the earth kind of way. Trusted. Every passing second convinces Connor more and more that Hank is the kind of man that he will never be. It doesn’t make him feel sad. Not really. Rather, he feels anticipation roll in his stomach at the thought of meeting with Hank again. 

President Anderson finishes his speech by addressing the wider world. He asks for the people gathered to think of those countries where the labour laws are still set at unfair odds with their own. 

“And although we still have a long way to go, think too of those countries who walk hand in hand with us, taking those necessary steps towards a fairer, brighter horizon.” As Hank speaks these closing words, Connor is sure that he looks directly towards him. His mouth curls in a subtle smile. 

When he is finished, the crowd erupts into rapturous cheers, shouts that shake the heavy sky. They all seem unaffected by the rain, which has started to come down in thick sheets. Connor wants to cup his hands around his mouth and whoop his approval, release the sharp bubble of tension in the base of his throat, blown tight and uncomfortable by Hank’s words. But he doesn’t. He swallows hard, and settles for quiet, polite applause. 

On the stage, Hank steps out from beneath the protection of the awning, hands and arms outstretched as if he wants to bring every one of the people gathered into his embrace. He’s drenched within seconds, the fine wool of his coat peppered with shiny droplets, his hair slicked down close to his head. He’s smiling though, wide and warm, and he seems to inch subtly forward like he might come down and walk into their midst.

A final wave of his hand, however, and he’s gone. Chatter spreads, loose and disordered, across the lawns.

“It’s time to go, Your Highness.” North’s voice is at his elbow.

Connor drags his eyes away from the rain slick stage, the wet, dark canopy. “Okay.”

Connor thinks about Hank’s speech for the rest of the day. He thinks about his honesty, his frankness, his clear, focused desire to do good and to put the world to rights. Of course Connor knows that there is injustice in the world, he’s done charity work and attended fundraisers for most of his adult life. But they’ve always been distant problems to him, set far apart from his own issues. It makes his stomach flip uneasily, his own indignance about a prison that is shiny and gilt and utterly comfortable. 

He spends the rest of the afternoon doing a brief round of interviews, discussing his recent stateside visits, mostly with the national American press. They’re set to be short pieces, mostly, and one of the reporters asks if they can photograph him as an inset for their article. He hopes that the picture makes him seem collected and worldly, rather than suffering internal conflict at the words and hands of their President. 

That evening, Connor has an invitation to the Labor Day Capitol concert. He’s been provided a file detailing what to expect when he arrives at the Kennedy Center: the Star Spangled Banner (Connor is to stand but not sing); a selection of American classics (from Souza to Franklin, Aretha); drinks afterwards in a private bar. There’s an addendum explaining that due to the day’s inclement weather, the concert will not be held outside, and that he and the President will share one of the theatre’s prime boxes.

He gets ready alone, pulling out the one black tie piece that he was instructed to bring - a slim cut tuxedo of midnight blue velvet, with shiny, rounded lapels and a matte black bowtie. When he’s dressed, he regards himself in the wardrobe’s full length mirror. He looks good, he thinks. He wears his hair a little neater than usual, flyaways pushed right back off his forehead, all of the curls pressed flat and straight. 

On the House’s insistence, Connor’s team have been given the night off. “Palace security will not be required in the Kennedy Center,” the dossier reads, efficient and slightly passive aggressive. Connor knows that North never really takes a night off, and that if he were to require her, she would only be a phone call away.

By extension, Connor expects to travel to the theatre by himself. However, as he’s putting on his shoes - black patent brogues buffed to such a high shine that he can practically see his face in them - there’s a knock at the door.

It’s the same aide that had greeted him on his very first visit, green eyes a little less tentative now. 

“Good evening, Your Highness.” 

Correct title this time, and much more conviction in his voice. Connor smiles. 

“The President’s car will be here in ten minutes. He’d like you to travel with him to the Kennedy Center.”

Connor’s sure there would be another option available if he asked for it, two shiny black cars riding along in convoy, Connor watching the President’s broad-shouldered shadow through the back window. That seems the more conventional choice, but certainly the less appealing one. 

“That’s fine, thank you.”

The aide - Jerry, Connor remembers now - nods, and Connor lets the door click closed. He thinks of the President’s blue eyes and the day’s grey clouds. It’s stopped raining now. Outside his window, the sunset is a heavy, stormy purple. 

The President’s car is already pulled up when Connor exits the front of the House, the engine running, a smooth, mechanical hum. Although he can’t see properly through the tinted windows, the light from the driveway shows him a shape moving in the backseat. Connor’s stomach pulls tight. 

He hears Hank speak before he sees him properly. An extended hand, the palm square and broad, and the edge of a silken shirt, set with a silver cufflink. “Your Highness.”

Connor swallows. His mouth is suddenly very dry. “Mr President.”

Hank smiles conspiratorially at their exchange of formal titles. Their secret - _Connor, Hank_ \- sparkles between them like the shimmering edge of a star. 

“I enjoyed your speech today,” Connor says, and as the car pulls onto the road, he keeps his eyes fixed pointedly ahead. He can feel Hank watching him, and for the moment, that’s quite enough.

“Thank you,” Hank replies. “I’m sorry about the weather.”

“I’m used to it.” Connor folds his hands delicately against his knees. His knuckles rub absently over the smooth grain of the velvet. 

“I hope you enjoyed your day yesterday,” Hank continues, after a long moment. There’s something short and clipped in his voice, as if talking with Connor is causing him some discomfort. Connor doesn’t know why this would be, and he tries very valiantly not to dwell on it.

“I did, thank you.” 

As Connor speaks, he turns - slowly, finally - to face Hank. He’s dressed in black tie too, far more formal than the first time Connor saw him: that navy suit that shone in the light, his tie run through with silver. He’s wearing a black tuxedo now, and a white shirt, pleated narrow and crisp across his chest. Classic and sophisticated. Connor knows he’ll cut a fine figure amongst those gathered at the concert this evening.

“I’m glad.” 

They pull up to a stoplight. In the red glow, Hank’s features are thrown into a soft, sultry relief. Connor has the sudden, inexplicable urge to reach over and brush Hank’s elbow with the very tips of his fingers.

They chat a little about the Kennedy Center, who and what Connor should expect at the concert. It’s all very bland and professional, a far cry from their previous sunlit talk, deep and personal, with a fine tea set spread before them. By the time they reach their destination, Connor can’t help but feel slightly despondent.

The Kennedy Center is a wide, white building on the water, its low frame reminding Connor of a glass fronted cricket pavilion. When they arrive, flanked by the President’s security detail, there are already crowds of people flocking at the doorways: tourists dressed in jeans and trainers, ladies with flowers in their hair and dresses that sweep along the wet pavement. The whole world turned out to share the music, no discrimination about who can and cannot attend. 

They’re led through the foyer up a grand staircase to their box, the pair of them garnering stares and whispers and fumblings for phones to snap a quick photograph. Looking at those assembled, Connor wonders if it’s common practice for the President to attend this concert. Perhaps not. He supposes Hank doesn’t care. 

Box One - best seats in the house, of course, and far too big for two - is at the top of a short flight of stairs, hidden behind a dark velvet drape. Hank instructs his guards to wait before the curtain, detailing in a few short words that they are to watch the corridor that runs around the outside of the boxes rather than following them up and into their seats. If they are surprised by Hank’s instructions, they do not show it. 

Hank ushers Connor in first, holding the thick curtain back so that Connor can pass before him. It’s a gentlemanly gesture, _after you, please_ , and Connor inclines his head politely in Hank’s direction. He hears the heavy swoop of the curtain falling back into place after the pair of them, the tap of Hank’s shoes as he takes the stairs behind him.

It’s only six steps to the box. Connor can see their seats already, two perfect, straight backed chairs, with scrolled feet and lush armrests. The light from the stage is obscured by the lip of the box, casting them into a half-light, all shadows and shade. 

He feels Hank move to walk beside him, the smooth satin of his jacket sleeve brushing almost imperceptibly against Connor’s own. They are nearly at the box, just three steps left, then two.

Hank lays his hand at the small of Connor’s back. 

It’s a simple gesture, one that would certainly go unnoticed - or at least uncommented on - if somebody were to see them. A guiding hand, steering him in the right direction. A good man, taking care of his guest. Unseen, the touch is electric. Hank’s fingertips crackle, sending something heady and bright up the curve of Connor’s spine, singing through the wires of his nerves.

Connor glances towards Hank. He’s staring pointedly ahead at the bright lights before them, his hand resting in the same spot, heavy and unmoving. Connor wants to lean into the touch, he wants Hank to look at him and say something. Something profound, something banal. Anything. He wants him to say his name.

Nothing happens. They make that final step over the threshold and into the box. Hank removes his hand from Connor’s back and pulls out one of the two chairs, gesturing for Connor to sit down.

“Take a seat, Your Highness.”

Connor obliges. Hank’s gesture - strange and incredible - goes unmentioned. Connor takes a deep breath, his hands curling tightly into momentary, white-knuckled fists. 

The auditorium of the Kennedy Center is magnificent, velvet seats and lined boxes set neatly beneath a wild hexagonal ceiling, decorated with panels and chandeliers like the inside of a crystalline beehive. From their seats Connor can see the entire audience, and there are people gathered right to the rafters. A full house tonight, every seat taken. 

On the stage, the orchestra are already tuning their instruments, discordant notes that spin into an eventual harmony, a steady A-note, pulled out across strings and pushed through the trembling woodwind, the shuddering brass. 

Hank and Connor sit quietly, not talking, listening to the chatter and bustle of the people around them, below them, the footsteps that move above their heads. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, but there is an undeniable tension between them, like violin strings pulled too taut over the flimsiness of their wooden bridge. It hums and buzzes, as low and deep as the sounds from the stage.

The concert begins with a rousing rendition of the Star Spangled Banner, and every person in the house gets to their feet, thousands of voices finding their way towards the finely decorated ceiling. As instructed, Connor stands with his hands folded before him, as proper and polite as a choirboy. Hank sings, his hand laid against his chest like it might reflect his heart. His voice is low and gravelly and a little flat, not good by typical standards, but Connor finds himself endeared to it. It seems right. 

Once they’re seated again, the concert rolls on: marches that Connor recognises, soul music that he doesn’t. The brass is as dark and deep as the night’s sky, spread fingers in Connor’s chest that he yearns to let close around his heart. He’s always loved music, concerts and variety shows have always been engagements where he genuinely enjoys himself. But tonight? He’s distracted. He can’t pretend that he isn’t.

He can’t ignore Hank’s presence beside him, lingering in the periphery of his vision, a shadow against the white light from the stage, dark and tempting. He wants to sneak glances at him - it’s purely curiosity, he tells himself. How does the President react to the music? Does he like the marches, the steady drumbeat like the thrum of a heart? Or does he prefer the jazz pieces, smoother than silk, the voices that curl together like smoky tendrils?

Is he distracted? Is he thinking about Connor?

Connor has no way of knowing the answer to any of his questions at the moment, so he tries to force them from his mind and focus on the stage in front of him. He’ll ask Hank about the music later. He keeps his gaze forward, resolute.

Through it all, he remembers Hank’s hand against his back.

* * *

The concert closes with a standing ovation, a great wave of movement as every member of the audience gets to their feet and applauds the orchestra. They bow, black tuxedos and satin dresses rustling as they fold at the waist.

Connor barely has a moment to look at Hank, let alone speak to him, before they’re being whisked away, the box suddenly filled with staff who pluck them out of their seats and insist that they follow. Along with a stream of people equally in their finery, they’re shown to a bar at the very top of the building. Flat expanses of terrace spread out in every direction, right to the rim of the roof, the merest sliver of wall separating them from the open air. In the distance, through one of the huge windows, Connor can see the Washington Monument, the needle that holds in the centre of the city like a lynchpin. It rises against the grey sky, a spectre, eerily lit from below.

There are numerous signs posted outside the front of the bar’s glass doors: _Apologies, Private Event_. Connor and Hank are ushered right past these, no need to check their names or credentials against any kind of guest list. Their faces and presence together are quite enough of an identification card. 

Inside, it is already busy, surprising given the speed at which they were driven out of their seats. Connor suspects there are people here who have been present since the interval, or even before the concert, most of them seated at the low, white-clothed tables at the perimeter of the room. Many of them have a slumped, loose-shouldered posture that speaks of being far more cocktails down than they’d actually like to be. 

“Can I offer you a drink?” A waitress appears at Hank’s elbow. She seems far too young to be here; her mousy hair pulled back into a ponytail and a dusting of freckles across her nose.

“Please,” Hank starts, “one Manhattan, and…” He gestures towards Connor, inviting him to continue the request.

“I’ll have the same, thank you,” Connor says, and Hank makes a short noise at the back of his throat: low, impressed. The waitress ducks her head and hurries off to collect their drinks.

“You a whisky man?” Hank asks.

Connor wonders whether he should lie. In any other circumstance, he might, deciding just to fabricate some answer for the benefit of conversation, but with Hank, it’s hard to lie. Spirits have never really agreed with him, they're too strong, too bitter. But here, in this golden lit bar, with the black snake of the river just visible through the darkened windows and the low hum of jazz still ringing in his ears? It feels like the right choice. 

“Not really, I-”

Before Connor has a chance to explain, there’s a shout from behind them. 

“Mr President!”

A man, who Connor recognises but cannot instantly put a name to, steps brazenly between the pair of them, extending his hand straight out for Hank to shake. Connor wonders if Hank’s eye roll is as obvious to everyone else. He suspects maybe not, and makes a valiant effort to hide his smile.

“Mr Perkins,” Hank says, giving the man’s hand a sharp, formal pump. 

Of course. Richard Perkins, a prominent Republican congressman and one of Hank’s sharpest adversaries in the House of Representatives. Hank’s voice is tense and Connor isn’t surprised. 

There’s no time for Connor to introduce himself, because Perkins has already zeroed in on him, rounding his attention like a tiger might focus on new prey. Connor feels his chest puff out a little at the insinuation that he is an easy target for some kind of takedown.

“Your Highness - Prince Connor, yes?” It’s not really a question. 

Connor nods. “A pleasure, I’m sure, Mr Perkins.”

Perkins doesn’t seem bothered by his presence. Clearly he’s one of those Congressmen with ambivalent attitudes towards the monarchy, unconcerned if it doesn’t affect their own country. 

“Mr President, we have to discuss these recent trade talks with China.” Perkins’ hand hovers at Hank’s elbow, as if he’s ready to bodily steer him away. “Unless you’re busy, of course?”

Hank gives Connor a quick, level glance, the piercing blue of his eyes hitting something in the very base of Connor’s chest. Connor tilts his head to one side as if to say: _go ahead_. 

That’s all the invitation Perkins needs, and without so much as a polite goodbye, he’s steering Hank away from Connor and leading him further into the room. Perhaps he’s hoping to find a new crowd of people with whom he and Hank can discuss things that he deems Connor - his head too heavy with the weight of the crown - too dense to understand. 

Luckily or not, there are a number of familiar faces eager for an audience with Connor, and when Hank leaves, he’s not left standing by himself. Far from it. He’s approached by a few minor celebrities, a handful of media influencers, some of the congressmen who he had met with the previous day. He drinks his Manhattan. It's strong, marred with a sickly undertone, and he orders another. 

To say that he’s having a good time would perhaps be an overstatement, but it’s bearable, certainly. The concert acts as a solid conversation point, and before Connor knows it he’s made his way around a few of the different circles gathered, sat at one or two of the different tables. His second Manhattan loosens some of the tension gathered in his shoulders, and by the time his third is in his hand, the drink doesn’t taste quite as bitter.

Throughout the evening, he keeps his eye on Hank. He can’t help himself. To begin with, he tells himself that he’s concerned after the rough encounter with Perkins, but as the minutes wear on, he starts to rise out of any kind of illusion, like breaking the surface of a pool. The truth of the matter is that he likes spending time with Hank. President be damned. Prince be damned. He likes talking to him, he likes listening to him. He liked the brush of fingers against the small of his back.

The realisation sinks through Connor like a stone, settling at the bottom of his stomach. He does his very best to bury it. 

When Hank has finally made his way back around the room, involving himself expertly in the many groups of people who want to speak with him, Connor is halfway through his fourth Manhattan, talking a recent London art exhibition with a New York socialite who is wearing a dress so silken that it keeps slipping down off her shoulders. His head is more clouded than he would normally allow it to get at one of these kinds of functions, but his recent personal revelations about Hank - the _goddamn President of the United States_ , he tells himself - have turned his principles a little loose. 

Hank approaches the table where they are talking. He strikes an imposing figure at the best of times, but from Connor’s seated position, he’s positively towering. Connor does his best to arrange his expression into something neutral and unaffected. 

“My car is arriving in ten minutes, Your Highness,” Hank says. He sounds tired. Connor suspects that the conversations he’s had this evening have been far less pleasant and less innocuous than Connor's own. “I can arrange a separate car if you’d like to leave later.”

“No, thank you.” Connor shakes his head. “I’ll come with you.”

 _I’d like to come with you_ : is what he decides against saying. 

Hank’s expression shifts at Connor’s words, the change almost imperceptible. It’s difficult to tell whether he’s happy about the development or not. Connor hopes he is.

Connor turns to his present company, politely offering his hand for her to shake. “It was nice to meet you.” 

She gives him a sweet, watery smile. 

As promised, Hank’s car is parked up outside the front of the concert hall, exhaust billowing into the cool night air. It’s late, later than Connor realised with his head almost drowning in three and a half Manhattans. It takes a concerted effort not to slip on the rain-soaked steps. 

The traffic through the city is midnight smooth, and the driver politely informs them it will only take five minutes to get back to the White House. Connor tries not to look too disappointed.

“Did you have a good evening?” Hank asks, once they have pulled away from the front of the building. His eyes are fixed firmly forwards and his hands are restless on his knees, tapping out a beat that only he can hear.

“I enjoyed the concert,” Connor replies. He can sense that Hank probably doesn’t want to recount any of the conversations that he had in the bar afterwards. “I didn’t know very much of the music.”

It’s a needling comment, trying unsubtly to get Hank to open up and crack that hard, professional shell that he seems to have brought down over himself this evening. 

“No?” Hank sounds taken aback, his stiff, forced focus breaking as he turns his head towards Connor. 

“Not a whisky man, not a jazz man.” Connor spreads his hands in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Hank says, and the strength of his gaze on Connor is so much that part of Connor wishes he would look away again. He has an undeniable feeling that Hank is trying to send him some deeper message, inconspicuous, hidden in the seriousness of his brow. “You just need some education.”

The comment is innocent enough, but there’s an implication behind it that makes Connor’s chest constrict: a painful beat, the momentary clenching of a fist. He swallows.

“I’d like that.”

They pull up outside the columned facade of the house and the time comes for them to part and head to their separate wings. Connor almost, almost asks Hank not to leave him just yet. Another drink, perhaps. A jazz record, Hank’s choosing, whatever he wants.

But Hank casts the dice for the pair of them, holding out his hand for Connor to shake. 

“Goodnight, Your Highness.”

Connor frowns. They’re alone in the hallway. 

“Goodnight, Hank.”

Hank smiles, a half-laugh, as if the expression is involuntary. Maybe he’s taken by Connor’s forwardness.

“Connor.”

His name. Those long, irresistible vowels, drawn out over hot coals, the gravelly roll of Hank’s voice. Did Hank realise how much Connor wanted to hear him say his name? He hopes so.

Back in his rooms, Connor discovers that a fire has been lit. It must have been burning for a while. It simmers low in the grate, amber and gold, throwing the occasional spark up into the black flue. 

Properly alone for the first time in several hours, Connor sits down heavily on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. He’s tired. He’s tired and he’s tipsy and god, he’s gone and got a crush - because that’s what it is, isn’t it, silly and schoolboy-like and ridiculous - on Hank Anderson. President Hank Anderson. His diplomatic mark, the man who he was supposed to endear to the monarchy, a special relationship that he was supposed to repair, not endanger.

He pulls off his jacket and bowtie, throwing them both loosely over one of the stiff-backed armchairs. Connor has done some pretty stupid things in his life, things that have given him a tenuous opinion in the public eye, but this has to be right up there with the most ridiculous. He kicks off his shoes, takes off his socks. They fall in a haphazard pile on the rug and he does nothing to correct them. Of course Hank would never feel the same. And even if he did, there would be nothing that either of them could do about it. 

Maybe he should tell Hank? As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he laughs aloud, the sound a little hysterical in the silent room. Now _that’s_ ridiculous.

Connor stands, padding over to the ensuite bathroom in his bare feet. He washes his face, his hands. He studies his reflection in the mirror, still hazy from the evening’s drinks. He looks pale and young and out of his depth. 

Returning to the bedroom, he sits down on the edge of the bed again, untucking his shirt so that it hangs loosely out over his waistband. He doesn’t want to go to bed with all of this stewing inside him, his emotions burning as low and hot as the fire in the grate, but he doesn’t see another option. He’s going to have to let this thing whirl sickeningly in his stomach and his chest until it finally decides to burn itself out. If it decides to burn out.

That thought makes him groan, exasperated at all these ridiculous new things he is discovering about himself. He lets himself sag down onto the bed sheets, shifting so that his head is resting against the pillows. Still clothed, he wonders if he can just fall asleep like this and wake up in the morning with everything vastly improved, discovering that his feelings were just a dream. 

He switches off the lights at the bedside tables, plunging the room around him into darkness. For a moment he considers putting a pillow over his head and screaming very loudly into it, but he settles, instead, for staring blankly at the dark ceiling. The only light comes from the fire, a warm glow that spreads out over the few metres of carpet before the hearth. 

Connor closes his eyes. Opens them. He listens to the clock on the mantelpiece tick through five minutes, then ten. He tries not to think about Hank - his blue eyes, the curve of his smile, his hand against Connor’s back. He tries not to think about Hank, except all he does is think about him. 

It seems fruitless to seek Hank out right now. Surely he’ll be in his bed on the other side of the House, fast asleep, definitely not thinking about Connor. 

Connor waits another few rounds of the clock, his heartbeat much faster than its steady, mechanical ticking. With every passing second, try as he might to think about anything else, all he can remember is the ghost of Hank’s fingertips against his back. He imagines them moving against his hips, tracing gentle patterns along his ribs. 

Why did Hank touch him like that? It wasn’t necessary or professional, and Connor can’t see any reason for it besides Hank wanting to feel the curve of Connor’s back beneath his hand. Why would he want them to be alone in the box together, if not to feel Connor’s presence beside him, as normal and familiar as a first date? And why did he leave him in the hallway on their return to the House? Why did he try and force the firm wedge of professional titles between them? 

Connor rolls over onto his side. He closes his eyes. He’s certain that Hank must have felt the tension singing between them like the tight buzz of piano wire. That would explain his behaviour - his tenderness, his shortness.

Even though Hank could never reciprocate, perhaps there is some damage limitation to be done. If Connor leaves this any longer, it will start to fester and become dangerous, working itself into a sharp point that will press into the tender underside of his heart. 

He opens his eyes.

He has to see Hank. He knows that he won’t be able to sleep at all unless he has the chance to talk to him - not about this, even, but about anything. Jazz. Whisky. Chinese trade deals. Anything. 

A memory surfaces from earlier in the day, pulled to the forefront of his mind through the whisky fog, sickly, blurred around the edges: the Treaty Room - Hank’s private office, located only twenty metres from Connor’s bedroom door. It seems like a neat compromise. If Hank is there, catching up on some work before he goes to bed, then they can talk. Connor can feel assuaged that he hasn’t ruined everything. And if he’s not there? Well, then Connor can turn back, safe in the knowledge that some higher power is telling him that this evening simply wasn’t meant to be. 

Connor’s not even sure that he believes in any of that. But it sounds good for now.

Certain that the whisky still beating in his system is providing him with some headstrong Dutch courage, he clicks the door of the Lincoln Bedroom closed behind him and steps out into the corridor. It’s silent and empty, a large portion of the staff having left their duties for the night. He knows that there will be a small core of night staff in the building, but for now, he’s grateful for the quiet and the low lamplight. 

He rounds the corner, and there, suddenly, the closed door to which an offhand comment had directed his attention. Certainly not a place that he would have expected himself to be standing tonight, barefoot, dressed only in his trousers and shirt. 

He takes a deep breath against the hammering in his chest. There’s a strip of light showing at the bottom of the door, warm and tempting and almost terrifying. Why is he so scared? It’s not as if they haven’t had personal conversations before. It’s nothing new. 

He does his very best to convince himself of these things, and he’s utterly unsuccessful.

Fist raised, he knocks.

There’s a piercing moment of absolute, shattering silence. 

“Come in.”

Connor pushes the door open. The room is smaller than he would have expected it to be, hardly more than a desk, a set of chairs, and walls of cabinets around the perimeter. There’s a long, low table beneath the window, a record player and a stack of vinyls, a bottle of whisky, and two crystal glasses. They make rainbow-bright patterns on the fine, dark carpet.

At the sight of Hank, all of Connor’s determined talk that this a sensible, diplomatic engagement is in very serious danger of going out the window. He’s seated behind the wide mahogany desk, pouring over a thick stack of files and a sleek black laptop. He, unlike Connor, has removed his black tie and is wearing a white t-shirt, grey slacks, and he has a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. The sight makes Connor’s mouth go dry.

“Connor.”

It strikes Connor how unsurprised Hank sounds to see him standing in the doorway. His blue eyes find Connor’s own, something shining behind the initial seriousness of his gaze. Connor thinks he looks happy to see him.

“Hello.” Connor closes the door behind him and takes a step towards the front of Hank’s desk. “I didn’t want to sleep yet.”

Hank nods, tapping a few keys and closing the laptop in front of him. Evidently he was feeling the same way, restless, still buzzed from the evening’s events. Connor thinks again about Hank’s hand at his back, guiding him up the stairs to their box, his insistence that they were left alone in their seats. Is he still awake for the same reasons as Connor? 

Connor had been sure, back in his bedroom, that Hank would never feel the same way. That even if he did, it would be ridiculous to do anything about it. But here? Now? He feels something. A hot coal, a bright ember nestled between them. It’s waiting to be unearthed, to be disturbed and send bright sparks flying into the darkness.

Hank regards Connor over the edge of his glasses. “Pour us a drink, would you?”

Connor does as he’s asked, moving to stand behind the desk. He takes his time - unstopping the bottle, lining up the glasses, pouring a finger of whisky into each of them. He can feel Hank watching his every move. 

He leaves his own glass on the tray, standing with his thigh against the edge of Hank’s desk. Hank is still seated, but if he were to get to his feet, they would only be half a metre apart. Connor holds out the glass, and Hank goes to take it. 

He bends his elbow, and the movement pulls the drink out of Hank’s reach. “No.”

“No?” Hank grins, his brow furrowed in amused confusion. Connor can feel his heartbeat thrumming in the base of his throat. 

“I’ll trade you,” Connor says.

Hank leans back, taking off his reading glasses and placing them down on the desk before him. God, he’s handsome. And he’s good, Connor knows, and he’s kind, and suddenly Connor wants nothing more than to feel his hands on him again. 

“For what?” Hank asks.

Connor’s already thrown all caution to the winds. He remembers his father’s old sigil, etched in fine golden script over one version of their family crest: _What God wills will be._

Well then. Let it be so. 

Connor can taste the words on the tip of his tongue, sweet and dangerous. “A kiss.”

“Oh.” 

Hank doesn’t sound surprised. He reaches for Connor’s spare hand, his fingers enclosing entirely around his wrist. He pulls Connor towards him - Connor has to take another step, unsteady on his feet - and raises Connor’s hand to his mouth.

The warmth of his lips finds the thin skin on the inside of Connor’s wrist, right over his pulse, right where his heartbeat hums. Connor gives a slow, shuddering breath. Hank lets his mouth linger over Connor’s skin. The contact is dark and delicious, but it’s not enough, not even nearly. 

Connor shakes his head. Adrenaline courses through him, burning through his veins, making his hands tremble, his heart beat sound in double time. “No. That’s not what I meant.”

Hank stands. With the gap between them grown even smaller, they’re standing practically chest to chest, and Connor is very aware of just how much broader than him Hank is. 

“Alright.” Hank’s voice is no more than a whisper, low and charged. “Alright.”

And his mouth finds Connor’s own. 

He kisses him. He kisses him, long and slow and sweet, one arm wrapping around his waist. Does it last for mere seconds? Does it last for hours? Truly, Connor has no way of knowing. Time stands still and he loses himself in the feeling of Hank’s mouth, the hot press of his body: thick arms, soft chest, the way he sighs, broken and desperate, into Connor’s mouth.

Somewhere in it all, Hank takes the whisky glass out of Connor’s hand and places it on the desk beside them. Connor threads his fingers into Hank’s hair.

It’s a good kiss, no doubt about that. Connor melts into Hank, soft and pliant, and Hank holds him up, keeping the curves of his body close. But below it all, below the rolling waves that tell Connor that this is stupid and wrong and that he should absolutely not be doing this, something new glimmers. A pearl, a jewel. Something bright and clear that tells him this is absolutely right. That this is what has been missing from his life. This man, right here, the solid bough of his arms.

When they finally pull away, neither of them have the conviction to go very far. Connor speaks against Hank’s lips.

“Fuck.”

Hank laughs, and when he does, it rumbles and rocks through Connor’s chest. If he thought he’d liked the sound of Hank’s laugh before, it’s nothing compared to this.

“I’m glad you said it,” he says. He kisses the side of Connor’s mouth. 

Connor wants to kiss him again. Properly. He doesn’t want to stop. He desperately wants to think about all of the things that would normally come next - although he knows that there is absolutely nothing normal about any of this. 

“I’m sorry if I was unkind this evening,” Hank continues, speaking over Connor’s crashing thoughts.

Connor thinks of Hank’s shortness with him, his refusal to make eye contact. He shakes his head. “You weren’t unkind.”

“I was thinking about this.” Hank’s voice is small, his tone so honest and frank that it sounds almost sad. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”

Connor presses his mouth beneath Hank’s eye, to the broad stripe of his cheekbone. His chest feels light, filled with something so brilliant and so tender that it’s a wonder he doesn’t just take flight. Hank’s hands keep him grounded.

“Me too.”

And it’s the truth. He can’t dig into the depths of it now - his hands are trembling like leaves, his brain utterly consumed with the taste of Hank’s lips - but he knows that since their first meeting, since that first fated evening, he has been thinking about this. It has been waiting at the back of his mind, a secret he didn’t even know he was keeping.

They kiss again. This time, Connor’s hands find the waistband of Hank’s trousers, his thumbs hooking underneath and running along the smooth skin of Hank’s hips. Hank shivers, and Connor moves against him. 

“Connor.” Hank pulls back slightly. “It’s late.” 

They regard each other - bright blue eyes on chestnut brown. It feels careless to move too fast, as if this delicate new thing that they have discovered will shatter if they don’t treat it with steady, sensible hands. 

“It is.” 

“I should finish up here,” Hank comments, jerking his head towards the papers on the desk. His eyes don’t leave Connor’s own. 

“I should go back to my room,” Connor says, although so much of him is screaming to do the exact opposite. 

Hank’s hands drop from Connor’s waist, and Connor takes a step back, putting that unbearable distance between them once more.

On his way to the door, Connor turns with one final burning question. “Can we do this again?”

Hank looks at him, still standing in exactly the same place as when they parted. 

“I think we have to, don’t we?”

That night, sleeping in those fine white sheets lined with sunbeams, Connor dreams of Hank. In his dreams, Hank kisses him. He kisses his mouth, his cheeks, the fine lines of his ribs. He touches him too, gentle at first, then more urgent, then gentle again. He lays him down on his back and he puts his mouth on Connor’s body, and Connor is happy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> post-kiss and the rating has been changed ;)

The next morning, Connor wakes with his legs tangled up in the bedsheets, his mouth dry, a headache creeping in at his temples. For a second, staring at the arc of sunlight creeping in over the top of the curtains, he forgets the events of the previous night, letting them stay beneath the waves of his consciousness for a while longer. But slowly, steadily, the memories begin to surface. Hank’s hands at his waist, the sweet, dark press of his mouth. The expression on his face - half-shock, half-elation - as Connor had slowly closed the door to the office. He’d had to lean against it for a second before he made his way back down the corridor, taking in long, shuddering breaths, his legs shaking.

The enormity of it all hasn’t come crashing down around his ears just yet, and he’s not sure if it ever will. It seems like he’s walking through a dream, as if imminently someone will reach for his shoulder and shake him awake and say _no, actually, that didn’t happen._ He didn’t feel that light switch flicking, that illuminating moment, that puzzle piece slotting perfectly into place. The depth of his feeling isn’t so much that he worries he might drown in it. 

He buries his head in his pillow for a few long, hopeless minutes before he gets out of bed.

On a neat folding table outside the door of his room, there is a pot of coffee and two morning newspapers, along with a brief note, handwritten on a stiff, monogrammed card. 

“The President requests your company for breakfast in the President’s Dining Room, 10:00am.”

Connor checks his watch. He has a little less than an hour to make himself appear presentable, and to think about what on earth he might have to say to the man who he kissed last night, in front of stacks of files undoubtedly containing numerous national secrets. 

He showers, drinks his coffee black and bitter and then gets dressed: a dark shirt, buttoned to the top with no tie, a pair of sleek, bottle-green trousers. He checks his reflection in the mirror. It’s perhaps a less formal outfit than one would usually choose when dining with the President, but given Connor’s dishevelled appearance when he’d entered Hank’s office the previous evening, this is certainly an improvement. He lets his hair dry naturally before styling it, and it sits in loose curls against his forehead. 

The President’s Dining Room is at the front of the House, set with two narrow windows that overlook the well manicured front lawn, and beyond that, the broad, grey thoroughfare of Pennsylvania Avenue. What strikes Connor the most about it, however, is how close it is to the master bedroom. The Presidential Suite. The room where Hank sleeps. As soon as Hank’s aide tells him that, guiding him as professionally and efficiently as if they are on a tour, Connor has a hard time thinking about anything else.

What is Hank’s bedroom like? He’s sure he could find archive photography on the internet, if he were to look in the right places, but at the end of the day, that wouldn’t really tell him anything. Knowing what Hank’s bedroom looks like doesn’t tell him how the carpet would feel beneath his bare feet, or how the bedsheets would feel against his skin. It doesn’t tell him what the crook of Hank’s neck smells like, or how his eyelids might flicker as he sleeps. And these are the things that Connor really wants to know.

Before knocking on the door to the dining room, he has to forcibly stop that train of thought from running on any further. Becoming lost in this unachievable dream of domesticity is not going to do anyone any good. 

Hank is seated at a rectangular dark wood table - with a jolt, Connor is reminded of his mahogany desk - a selection of the morning papers spread out in front of him. He’s wearing a grey suit, a finely tailored white shirt, and a tie that is almost exactly the same colour as Connor’s trousers. Perhaps the recognition of this also crosses Hank’s mind, because he smiles.

“Good morning, Your Highness.”

Connor watches Hank’s mouth as he speaks. He knows what those lips feel like, soft and desperate against his own, and the memory makes his stomach twist, his chest feel as if it is filled with too much air. He wonders if his own voice is going to crack as he replies.

“Mr President.”

To his great surprise, he sounds calm and collected, even if his whole body is feeling the exact opposite. A lifetime of training has come to fruition in the bizarrest, most dangerous of places.

“Take a seat, please.” Hank gestures to the chair opposite him, where another place has been set. White china, edged in gold. In an ideal world, Connor would take the seat beside Hank, shifting himself so that they could share their breakfast in as close proximity as possible. He would touch Hank’s elbow with his fingers, pour coffee into both of their mugs. Hank would offer him a piece of something from his own plate - a slice of fruit, its juice glistening on his fingers - and Connor would taste the food against Hank’s skin. 

But this is far from an ideal world. Connor takes the distant seat that he is offered and is poured coffee by one of the staff. He eats the food from his own fork, served by his own hand, and he doesn’t touch Hank at all. The distance makes his body ache - his shoulders, his chest, the cradle of his hips - and he doesn’t let any of it show. 

Conversation over breakfast is insipid and infrequent. Mostly they discuss Connor’s visit, the people he has met, and the final engagement on his itinerary: a preview of a new exhibition opening in the Phillips Collection, before he flies home on the evening’s red eye. Connor wants nothing more than to discuss the events of last night, to see whether Hank really meant what he said, if he realised the true weight of his actions. But there’s no way to work any of that into casual, diplomatic conversation - Connor can hear the staff moving around in the kitchen behind them - so it goes unsaid. He begins to think, with a wave of panic in his stomach, that it might go unsaid for ever.

* * *

The Phillips Collection is not open to the public on Mondays, and as such, the galleries are empty aside from the President and his small collection of guests: Connor; several Secretaries of State; a number of prominent curators from some of the nearby cities. Three of the galleries have recently been refurbished, and it is their first day open, operating previews before the masses are allowed to descend on them. 

Connor recognises some of the paintings and he knows some of the artists’ names on the cards accompanying the pieces. Most of them are twentieth or twenty-first century, contemporary and abstract, bold colours and forms that Connor doesn’t quite understand. One of the rooms has just three glass cabinets in it, and in each of them lies a selection of black and white objects, all rounded corners and curves, like pebbles worn smooth by the sea. He understands enough about the works to make polite conversation, but honestly, he doesn’t think this is quite his field. 

In the last room, however, is a pair of canvases that make him pause in his lazy, absent beeline around the polished floor. Two tall paintings hang side by side, narrow yellow rectangles, like sunlight streaming through open windows. At the bottom of the right hand canvas, deep and inviting, is daubed a single blue-green square - a pool to dive into, perhaps. To drown in.

Connor stands for a while, contemplating, and as he does, he feels someone come to stand beside him. He knows the figure in the periphery of his vision; there’s no need for him to take a proper look. 

“My brother has a painting by this artist,” Connor says. “Rothko.”

“And? What do you think of it?” Hank asks. He is standing with his hands clasped neatly in front of him.

“Honestly?”

“Please.”

“Honestly, I don’t really like it. It makes me feel…” Connor pauses, looking for the right word. “Uneasy. But these? These feel different, I think. More hopeful.”

“You wanna know something?” Hank lowers his voice, his tone suddenly secretive. 

Connor doubts that he is about to divulge some great personal secret, certainly not here, where even the faintest whisper can travel with the utmost ease. All the same, the question gives Connor butterflies, an instant and insistent crackling in the pit of his stomach which spreads out to the tips of his fingers.

“Always.”

Hank turns to face him. Connor meets his gaze, eye contact blazing over the short distance between them. There is not that much difference in their heights, not from an outside perspective, but Connor feels dwarfed by Hank’s easy, effortless command over his power. He takes a step closer, close enough that Connor would be able to reach out his arm and touch him...

“I don’t know anything about modern art.”

It certainly isn’t what Connor had expected to hear - but it’s honest and brusque and so entirely Hank that he can’t help but laugh. The sound echoes against the high ceilings. Hank grins at his response, oblivious to the small crowd of officials who have turned to look at them. It’s silly, but it alleviates some of the tension that has been burning between them since breakfast.

They wander around the rest of the room side by side, their little gallery of secrets just growing and growing, like precious gems that only the two of them are allowed to share. Their kiss, of course, is the diamond in the crown. More than once, Connor’s fingers flex with the desire to take Hank’s elbow, or his hand. It feels like they have known each other for many years, as if they are old friends, rather than recent acquaintances on the diplomatic sphere. 

The visit closes with a late lunch in the gallery’s cafe, a bright space lined with fine blue silks, each one printed with delicate white branches that spread out like veins across the walls. More than once, Connor catches Hank looking at him, a gaze that crinkles at the corners as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. Each time, it costs Connor a great effort not to stumble over his words.

Towards the end of the meal, when coffees are being handed out by the slightly stunned looking gallery staff, a small disturbance sparks in the door to the cafe. It’s North, instantly recognisable from a distance by her shock of red hair, flanked by several of Hank’s own security personnel. They had been left at the front of the building, instructed to wait until a certain time to come and collect their charges. Connor checks his watch to find that that specified hour is still forty minutes away. Something must be wrong.

“I’m very sorry to interrupt,” she says, finally making it to the collection of tables where they are seated. “I need to speak to his Royal Highness. It’s relatively urgent.”

Her face is very still and her voice is very level, but Connor knows her well enough to tell that something is panicking her. He gets to his feet, trying to keep his expression as calm as her own. He can taste his heartbeat, suddenly, jumping somewhere in his throat.

“Excuse me.” 

As North leads him to the doorway of the cafe, Connor tries not to play over and over in his mind all of the possible issues that she could be waiting to impart. A death. A scandal. Some kind of disastrous revelation that would ruin all of this before it had even started. 

Surely not. There’s no way.

“Your Highness, there are no planes flying out of Dulles airport this evening.”

Is that it? - Connor thinks, relieved - well, thank God. He clears his throat and allows the rapid beat of his heartbeat to drift back to where it should be. 

“Oh. Why not?”

“There’s been a security breach. The airport has been evacuated until further notice.” She explains further: an unattended package, a suspicious group of travellers, the discovery of falsified documents running through the airport’s systems. Connor isn’t listening to most of it, he’s just grateful that she isn’t telling him something that he desperately didn’t want to hear.

“We’ll fly tomorrow,” he says, when she’s finished. “That’s okay.”

North shakes her head. “I have explicit instructions from the palace to get you home tonight.”

Connor can’t help but feel a tight band of frustration close around his chest. He’s been doing a good job here, an admirable representative for his family and his country, yet still, _still_ the palace’s grip on him is so tight that just one day off schedule is absolutely out of the question. 

“I can send an explicit response in return, if you would like.”

North raises one eyebrow. 

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary. We can-”

She stops, and Connor turns to see Hank standing beside them. 

“Mr President.” North doesn’t seem in any way affected by Hank - his presence, that casual air of power that he commands. Lucky her.

“What’s the issue?” Hank asks, his brow creased in genuine concern. Connor feels bad for not realising immediately that, of course, the panicked thoughts that crossed his own mind must have crossed Hank’s as well.

“There are no planes flying out of Dulles airport today. Or-” She speaks over Connor’s inevitable interruption. “Or perhaps even tomorrow.”

“Are you going to stay?” Hank asks, and when he speaks, he addresses her and not Connor, maybe for fear of coming across overly eager. 

“We can’t, I’m afraid.” She shakes her head again, tapping purposefully on the open tablet in her arms. “His Royal Highness has other engagements this week. There’s no way.”

Connor wishes, hands balling into fists in the pockets of his trousers, that this were not true. He imagines another night in Hank’s company, another two nights. He imagines beyond that, too. He lets those thoughts glide over him like water.

“Of course.” Hank nods. He pauses for a moment, thinking. “Well, I think we could fly you, Your Highness. If that’s acceptable.”

Connor’s certain that North looks more delighted than him.

“Really?” she asks, her face brightening.

“We’ll go back to the House and I’ll make some calls,” Hank replies. “I’ll see what I can do.”

They make their polite excuses and drive back to the White House. Hank disappears upstairs with a few of his staff, promising once again that he will do his best to sort something out. A tense hour follows, and they have little else to do but wait, seated in one of the building’s many lavish reception rooms. North stays with Connor, tapping decisively at her tablet; he suspects she is mostly worrying, rather than doing anything particularly important. Connor does the crossword in the back of the Washington Post.

In the late afternoon, just as the shadows on the lawns are beginning to grow long, Hank appears in the doorway. He has loosened his tie and the top button of his shirt is undone, and when North gets to her feet at his arrival, he waves her back into her seat. 

“Air Force One will be prepared to fly out of Joint Base Andrews in the next hour or so,” Hank explains. “If that suits you.”

North stands, ignoring Hank’s initial insistence that they should stay seated, and crosses the room to shake his hand. “Thank you, Mr President.”

“There’s a few issues though; all this going on at Dulles is really screwing up the flight plans. Ground control has advised that you carry an extra security detail on the plane,” Hank says. “Means I’ll have to accompany you.”

While North explains that that certainly won’t be a problem, that she’s just very grateful for the President putting himself out like this for the sake of the Crown, Connor quietly nurses the warm, mellow glow that has started in the hollow of his ribcage. The prospect of a six, seven hour flight with Hank by his side, where they might possibly have the chance to be alone for a while - even if just to talk, let alone anything else - is an extremely welcome one.

They’re on the plane within the next few hours, just as Hank had promised. The inside of the craft is compact and modern, a step up even from the empty first class cabins that Connor is accustomed to. Hank explains that the front of the plane is the executive suite - reserved for him, his guests, their security teams - and that the rest is usually for his staff and advisors, as well as larger parties. 

“I’ll give you a tour of the executive quarters when we’re up in the air,” Hank says, as he and Connor head through into the office space, all sleek cream and tan fittings, plush leather seats, the distinctive presidential seal printed above one of the oval windows. “If you’d like.”

Connor thinks that his words read like some kind of coded promise, one that right now, he has to tuck away for safe-keeping. In the cabin below them, Connor can hear both of their security teams chatting and settling themselves in for the flight. 

“That would be interesting.” 

Interesting is perhaps not the right word, but Connor thinks it has an appropriate, professional ring to it, the sort of thing that wouldn’t sound out of place if they were to be overheard. Hank’s hands twitch, moving briefly to linger against the collar of his own shirt, as if the temperature in the cabin is suddenly too high. 

“Thank you again for offering to fly us,” Connor says, once the roar of the engines has died down to a subtle hum and they are cruising at altitude. “My brother will have to find a way to repay you.”

Hank shrugs, as if organising a private jet flight at only a few hours notice is no big deal. “Just keeping up international relations. Couldn't let you get stranded in DC and miss your engagements back home.”

They’re brought drinks, a cup of tea for Connor and a soda in a tall glass bottle for Hank. Connor wishes, half-heartedly, that he had asked for something a little stronger - but tells himself that hampering his own judgement right now is not the best idea. He has to be careful and measured, he has to treat every moment as if it’s made of glass. They chat about what the palace has planned for Connor on his return, the interviews that he will be asked to do following his visit to the United States. Connor states flippantly that he won’t tell the press everything that he did in Washington, as some of it would be far too boring for them. Hank smirks.

When they’re finished, Hank gets to his feet. “Let me show you around.”

The ceilings of the office are high enough here that Hank doesn’t have to bend down, but as they pass through the door and down the stairs to the lower part of the quarters, he has to stoop. Connor watches him from behind, his broad frame, how the fine material of his suit shifts and pulls around the muscles in his back. He thinks, breath short, about reaching out and laying a hand on Hank’s shoulder, at his upper arm, at the thick trunk of his waist. 

The presence of both their security teams seated in the space to the right of the stairwell makes him intensely glad that he didn’t do any of those things. He keeps his hands to himself, folded behind his back.

As they pass by, Hank announces that he’s taking His Royal Highness on a tour of the Presidential suite. Connor’s not sure whether it’s a request that they are undisturbed, or a standard safety protocol, or something else. The comment is greeted with a smattering of, “Yes Mr President, Yes Sir”s, his team barely looking up from books and laptops. 

“Do you show a lot of people around your plane?” Connor asks, as they turn a sharp corner and head towards the front of the craft.

“Oh, you know. Only those who don’t have their own.” Hank accompanies his reply with a roguish wink, and Connor feels something spark in the pit of his stomach. 

The Presidential suite is situated in the nose of the plane, a tight warren of rooms that makes up the place where Hank stays whenever he is flying long distances. It’s clean and impersonal, a fact which disappoints Connor somewhat. He had hoped to see some evidence of Hank in his living quarters.

“Shower room.” Hank gestures as they pass by the next small room, tiled completely in white. “There’s a gym through the other side.”

“A gym?” Connor repeats, trying not to sound overly impressed. 

Hank nods, a smile curling one corner of his mouth. Honestly, impressing Connor more than the existence of the gym is the sudden, incredible image of Hank lifting weights, or slugging it out against a punchbag. He wonders if Hank can tell that from the look on his face, or the slight flush of warmth in his cheeks.

They make their way through a short corridor, exiting in what must be the final room of the maze, the very tip of the plane. “And this is the bedroom.” 

The walls of the room are lined with windows, each one with a thick, white blind folded above it, just waiting to black out the room at the press of a button. The whole space tapers inwards, following the line of the craft itself, and in the narrowest part of the room, there is a bed - a wide single, made up with navy sheets and two white pillows, each with the presidential seal embroidered on them. There’s a small table, a sofa, an armchair. 

It’s very quiet down here, away from the engines, away from the bustle of their staff. Connor thinks that they could be anywhere in the world. That they could be the only two people in the world. 

Hank clicks the bedroom door shut behind them. 

“What do you want to do now?” Hank asks.

Connor takes a single, shallow breath. A beat, a silent second passing between them. It’s all the time he needs to find an answer to Hank’s question.

“I want you to touch me.”

The words are like a dam breaking; a sudden snap in the resolve that they have been clinging to the whole day. One step each, one step across that gap and they are in each other’s arms again.

Hank kisses him, hard and desperate, the heat of his mouth positively intoxicating. It makes Connor feel light-headed, snatches the breath from deep within his chest. Hank’s tongue flicks against Connor’s own, a deep, slick warmth. Connor’s knees grow weak. 

Hank holds Connor against him, one arm firm around Connor’s waist, the other slung across his shoulders. Where his grip is steady, holding them in place, Connor lets his hands roam - touching every inch of Hank that he can reach from this angle. Hank shudders as Connor’s fingers press against him through the silken material of his shirt; he stifles a moan, bitten-off, delicious, as Connor’s fingers wind into his hair. Just as they had done the previous evening, his hands find the waistband of Hank’s trousers, his thumbs tracing along the line of his belt, dipping beneath to find the soft skin of his hips. This time, Hank doesn’t pull away. 

“This room doesn’t lock.” Hank gasps the words against Connor’s mouth. “We can’t-”

“It’s fine,” Connor says, although the concept of stopping here is, in fact, not fine at all. 

Hank shakes his head. “I mean, the bathroom does.”

Connor pulls back, just enough to take in the entirety of Hank’s expression. The blue of his eyes has turned dark with desire, his lips slightly parted. 

Hank moves to the bathroom first. Connor follows a moment later, making sure that the door is locked properly behind them. He can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, so loud and fervent that he is surprised that Hank cannot hear it thundering between them.

They regard each other for one long moment, breathing heavily. Connor can feel Hank’s gaze on every inch of him, exploring, assessing. He feels as if he is about to be devoured.

“We probably shouldn’t do this,” Hank comments, his voice barely more than a whisper. 

“You’re right,” Connor says, nodding. He knows this is stupid, he knows how much he is putting in danger, but something, some incredible, roaring riptide is pulling him into Hank’s arms. 

“Do you want to do it anyway?” 

_I think I’ll die if we don’t._ The words skate across Connor’s mind, unbidden. He doesn’t say them. He settles instead for another firm nod and just two words, simple and clear. 

“Yes. Please.”

When their bodies meet again, it is with a purpose and intent that Connor has never felt before. It’s like a fire has been lit between them, every movement only serving to make it flicker brighter. Hank kisses Connor's mouth again, and then, like they are moving together in a dream, his lips travel down the column of Connor’s neck. He undoes the first few buttons of Connor’s shirt so that he can kiss his collarbone, so that he can place his mouth against all the freckles along Connor’s shoulders. 

Connor moans, breathy, his head tilting back. A hot flame of desire curls and laps in the base of his stomach, urgent, demanding his attention. He’s half-hard already, the fine tailoring of his trousers becoming more uncomfortable and restrictive with every passing second. He can feel Hank’s interest too, the thick, firm line of his arousal pressing into the side of Connor’s hip. 

Very soon it’s not going to be enough, the press and ghost of Hank’s lips against the skin of his chest. He needs something more, something to sate that aching, tightening heat in his gut.

“Hank, please.”

“Tell me what you want, Connor,” Hank says, and the sound of his own name makes Connor’s hips roll and buck, insistent. Hank kisses Connor’s mouth, drawing his teeth lightly over the skin of his bottom lip. 

“More.” 

That’s all he can muster right now, but it’s direction enough for Hank. He slips his fingers in between the buttons of Connor’s shirt, until he can push the garment clean off his shoulders and toss it to the side. Connor feels incredibly vulnerable like this, every inch of his upper body exposed, Hank’s eyes roving over every line and curve, each freckle, each shadowed imperfection. 

Hank opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but at the last moment he bites it back, swallowing it down into nothingness. Too much for now, maybe. 

Instead of speaking, Hank follows the line of his own gaze with one wide palm. His fingertips travel over Connor’s chest, his stomach, his hips, brushing against his skin so gently that it makes Connor shiver. It doesn’t take long for Hank’s hand to find Connor’s waistband, toying with the neat clasp, the shiny, emerald green button. Normally, Connor might have found his own obvious arousal slightly embarrassing, to be so easily taken apart simply by kissing and the rough, even press of Hank’s palm. But this isn’t normal, he keeps telling himself. He moans, so short and quiet that it’s almost a whimper. 

“Okay?” Hank asks, and Connor nods. It’s more than okay.

With a slight fumble in his fingers the only thing that betrays his own arousal, Hank undoes the fastening, and pushes Connor’s trousers and underwear down to his thighs. 

“Oh.” It’s all Hank says in the wake of Connor standing before him, half-clothed. It’s not poetic, or earth-shattering, but the wonder and desire in that single syllable is enough to leave Connor light-headed. “Turn around.”

Connor does as he’s asked, turning so that the front of his bare thighs are pressed up against the smooth, plastic counter. It’s cool against his skin, which is alight with the hot, raw anticipation of what is to come. There’s a small mirrored cabinet mounted on the wall, but it’s too far to the left for Connor to see his own reflection in it. Initially he’s thankful for the fact, but he can’t help but wonder what he looks like, his narrow, naked frame flanked by Hank - broad, still fully dressed in his impeccable suit.

Hank presses a kiss to the nape of Connor’s neck, a spot just below his hairline, the knot at the top of his spine. He moves his hand to find the gap between Connor’s shoulder blades and guides him down towards the counter until he’s bent almost double over it, resting on his elbows. Hank studies each of Connor’s vertebrae, tracing them with his fingertips, following them with his mouth. Connor shudders, gazing down at himself through the shaking cradle of his arms. He’s fully hard now.

There’s a pause. Hank’s hand stops at Connor’s hip, his grip so firm that it’s a wonder he isn’t leaving bruises in his wake. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Hank asks. The sudden sincerity of the question takes Connor off guard, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut for a second for fear that he might just shake apart between Hank’s hands right then and there. 

“Oh god.” Connor doesn’t think he has ever wanted anything so badly in his life. “Yes. Yes, if you can.”

“Hold on.” 

Hank steps away from him for a moment, and Connor’s skin prickles hotly with the absence of his touch. There’s a clatter behind him, a brief flurry of movement. 

“Hank?”

“I’m here.” His hand returns to the small of Connor’s back, grounding, already so achingly familiar. 

There’s a click and then a sound that Connor recognises. If he was going to ask questions about why there’s a bottle of lube onboard the Air Force One, all thoughts of such are quickly, fiercely removed from his mind. He feels the slick press of Hank’s finger against his hole.

The touch is brief, a delicious promise of exactly what is to come. It sends sparks shooting up Connor’s spine, bright and shuddering, right to the base of his neck. He trembles, his hips pushing back against Hank’s hand.

“Okay,” Hank mutters. “Okay.”

And he slips one finger inside Connor. It’s not much of a stretch, not at first, but the sensation of having Hank inside him is so much that Connor can’t help but let his upper body go slack, his head sagging heavily between his arms. 

“Is that okay?” Hank asks, his spare hand rubbing circles at the dip in Connor’s spine. 

Connor understands that he doesn’t want to hurt him, and while he’s grateful for Hank’s tenderness, he’s not made of glass. He’s not some delicate figurine that will shatter if you so much as look at it. 

“I can take more than that,” Connor replies, and there’s a snap to his words that makes Hank laugh, a low, rumbling sound. He’s so close, his solid thighs pressing up against the back of Connor’s legs, only serving to push his finger even deeper inside. Connor whimpers. It’s not enough. 

“Glad to hear it,” Hank says, his voice close to Connor’s ear. 

He slides a second finger inside - Connor huffs, a low moan - and then a third. He works Connor open, adding slick until he can move cleanly in and out. Each press of his thick fingers has Connor seeing stars, rolling his hips with the hope of finding some friction, some release. The movement makes Hank’s fingers brush up against that tight, sweet coil of nerves within Connor’s body, and he gives a barely muffled shout, his dick twitching. 

“You need to be quieter than that.” 

There’s a dark, cautionary edge to his voice that does very little to help Connor’s situation. Connor whines, balling his hands into fists against the counter. He tries in vain to ignore the way his body is already tightening, tense and sparking like a live wire, as if too much in the right place would send him spiralling over the edge. 

“Please, Hank,” Connor gasps. Hank kisses Connor’s shoulder blade. 

The sudden emptiness as Hank slides his fingers free makes Connor bite down, hard, on the soft of his own palm. He lets a shuddering breath rock through him, hoping that it might do something to steady the thundering of his heart against his rib cage. Hank doesn’t say anything, but behind him there’s a rustle of fabric, the clink and slide of a belt being removed. Connor doesn’t dare look. 

There’s a long, strung-out moment in which Connor waits, burning, for something to happen. Then there’s the press of Hank’s cock against his sensitive hole, and Connor feels warm anticipation flood through him, through his stomach, his thighs, down to the soles of his feet. Using Connor’s hips as anchor, Hank pushes in, stretching him, filling him so entirely that Connor goes very still, his whole body focused on nothing more than that slow burn, that inch by inch press. 

“Am I hurting you?” Hank asks, and his voice sounds far less composed than Connor would have expected, cracking, husky, desperate. 

Connor shakes his head. “No. Not hurting me. I need, I need-” He takes a breath, gathers his thoughts. “I need you to move.”

“Fuck.” Hank bites down on the expletive, snapping the syllable between his teeth. “Fuck, okay.” 

He rolls his hips. Connor quivers with the slide of his thick cock, scrabbling for purchase against the counter. There’s nothing to hold onto. He grips his own elbows, curls his hands into fists over and over, as if that will help, as if that will hold him together. Hank pistons in and out, his movements slow and deliberate - and although Connor cannot see, he can tell that Hank is bigger and thicker than anything Connor has ever been fucked with before. Every thrust hits that hot, sweet spot inside him, Hank’s bulk pushing him down until his chest and cheek are flush with the counter.

“Connor. Connor, I-” Hank whispers the words against Connor’s ear, low, like a secret. “I’m not gonna last much longer like this.”

Connor bites down on his fist, a half-sob, half-moan filling his throat. Although he’s sorry that this is going to end sooner than he would have liked, he’s enamoured too, so totally enthralled by Hank’s loss of control, the gasped confession that he can’t hold back.

“Please.” 

It’s an invitation on Connor’s part, an acceptance. Please. Take me. Make me yours.

It only takes a few more rough thrusts and Hank spills inside him, coming with a muffled shout, his teeth pressed against the hard crest of bone at the top of Connor’s shoulder. The pulsing warmth filling him is almost, almost enough to send Connor over the edge, untouched - but not quite. 

Hank collapses against him, breathing heavily, the smooth brush of fabric against Connor’s skin reminding him that Hank is still mostly clothed. The thought sends a thrill through him. 

“I’m sorry,” Hank gasps, his mouth pressed against Connor’s temple. He sounds truly apologetic, as if he’s made some grave, irrevocable error. Connor reaches back to grab Hank’s hand, still curled at his hip, and squeezes his fingers.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, raising his head. “I liked it.” 

As he speaks, he can feel Hank shifting above him, readjusting the position of his hands, his thighs - as if he’s about to pull away. The thought of being without Hank, of being empty, now, when he’s so achingly close to that dazzling, blinding precipice is impossible to imagine. 

“Don’t.” The word falls from Connor’s lips before he can stop it - hard and cracked. His hand shifts back a little further, grasping at Hank’s thigh. “Stay.”

“Stay?” Hank’s voice is close to his ear again. On the surface, he sounds surprised, but there’s some current running beneath his words, a bubble of laughter, sly and teasing. “I don’t know if-”

Connor doesn’t have time for teasing. He feels like he’s about to snap, a bowstring that has been pulled far too tight. He takes Hank’s hand again, guiding his slick fingers forwards to wrap around his dick. Looking between his arms, Connor can see that Hank’s fist covers him almost entirely, and the image is so much - thick fingers, those broad, powerful palms - that he has to squeeze his eyes shut against it.

“Touch me like this,” Connor gasps, and Hank responds immediately, a slow stroke from base to tip. The movement is torturous, and Connor slumps heavily towards the counter again. “Please.”

Hank moves his hand again, fingers squeezing just tightly enough to make stars erupt in the edges of Connor’s vision. If he was close before, the quickening motion of Hank’s hand coupled with the feeling of his dick still inside him, softening and at the same time stretching him full, is enough to push Connor right to the edge. A familiar tight heat twists in his stomach. 

“Connor, you gotta stay quiet, okay?” 

Connor had barely noticed that he was making any sound. He nods, firm and yet absolutely uncertain that he can hold to his word. Hank doesn’t talk much more, but he shushes him, placates him, lets his spare hand trail against Connor’s jaw. Connor wants so badly to suck his thick fingers into his mouth. He can’t quite reach.

He imagines Hank talking him through it, how that gravelly voice would be so low and close to his ear - come for me, he’d say, you look so good. He’d entwine his hands in Connor’s hair, maybe pull his fingers through. Connor bites down on his lip. Hank would call him sweetheart. He’d call him baby.

His release builds and builds inside him until there’s nothing left for it to do but overflow - he comes with a shout, quickly muffled into his own, white-knuckled fists. Hips bucking back as if to take more of Hank, to feel him rub up against that sweet spot inside him once more, he spills onto Hank’s fingers. 

Hank works him for two more slow strokes, until Connor whimpers at the touch, spent and oversensitive.

They stay still for a long moment, the curve Hank’s belly pressed into the small of Connor’s back. 

When Hank pulls out - finally, regrettably - Connor has to take a second to gather himself before he can straighten up, turning so that they are face to face once more. Hank looks remarkably put together, his silver hair barely out of place, his tie still neat, his shirt almost perfectly buttoned. Below the crisp hem of his shirt, however, his trousers have been pushed to his knees, his dark boxers roughly bunched up under his balls. His soft cock, still impressive, still a sight to make Connor’s mouth water, curves against his thick thigh. 

They wash up as best they can, Hank tucks himself back into his pants and does up his belt, and Connor checks himself in the mirror, wondering if there might be something he can do to keep their indiscretions from being quite so obvious. He looks completely dishevelled, a far cry from Hank’s practically unflustered state. There is no tradition, no rules to explain what should be done in this situation - so he watches Hank in the mirror, and Hank watches him back.

In the end, Hank’s hand grasps Connor’s shoulder and turns him round so that he can pull him in close. Quiet, still. They stand like that for a minute, letting the waves of what they have done wash around them, through them; Connor listens to the sound of Hank’s heartbeat, echoing in his chest. At the end of it all, he thinks that silence might be worth more than words.

“I think I need to have a shower,” Connor says in the end, and Hank laughs.

“Sure.” They lean back, regarding each other for one final moment. Hank’s eyes shine very brightly in the white bathroom light. “Sure. Whatever you need.”

Back outside, Hank coolly makes whatever excuses are necessary to explain Connor’s absence, his change of clothes. In the shower, Connor lets the water run too cold, drawing several shuddering breaths from his lungs before he adjusts the temperature to something more comfortable. At his right hip there is a single, red mark, the impression of Hank’s thumb print. He knows that it will blossom eventually and turn a vivid, dark purple - a violet in bloom.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor leaves Hank; Hank has a surprise for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this chapter was so long in the making. I think I rather overextended myself with the weekly posting schedule, and then I played in another sandpit for a little while. But never fear - I have not forgotten these boys!

When they say goodbye, they are afforded nothing more than a brief, professional handshake at the airport. Hank squeezes Connor’s fingers lightly, imperceptibly, a promise that what they have shared will not be forgotten. The gesture makes Connor’s throat burn, and he has to reduce his farewell to nothing more than a few words, forcing his emotions to drown beneath the surface of his pleasant, benign smile. 

News of the change in Connor’s travel plans must have spread quickly through the press machine, because there are ranks of baying reporters waiting to watch them arrive. They throw out question upon question from behind the barrier, a raucous wall of sound and flashing lights. In the end, Hank makes a short, impersonal statement, referencing the problems at Dulles airport and explaining how he simply wanted to help. He speaks, too, about using his time to visit the Prime Minister, and how none of them should be worried about him wasting his visit. 

As Hank speaks, Connor tries not to stare. 

They have separate cars arranged to pick them up. Hank is travelling straight to the US Embassy, a shiny, modern looking building on the banks of the River Thames, and Connor is being driven home to his Kensington townhouse. Having slept very little on the flight - understandably, he tells himself, pinching the inside of his wrist to bring himself back to some semblance of reality - he’s eager to dismiss his team and have a day to himself, uninterrupted. He needs to sleep. He needs to think.

Upon their arrival back at his house, North looks fully prepared to debrief, to sit down in his living room and have a full blown discussion about the diplomatic gains made in their weekend visit. Connor can’t think of anything worse. He barely lets her over the threshold.

“Go home, North,” Connor says, and then to avoid sounding overly curt, he adds, “please. I just want to sleep. I’ll call you later.”

He hopes that he doesn’t sound too sad, and instead sounds like an exhausted, endlessly experienced diplomat who needs some time alone to decompress after an important trip. However he comes off, she nods, seeming to understand, and leaves him be. 

Connor leaves his bags in a pile in the hallway and heads straight upstairs, avoiding the very real temptation to fall, fully clothed, into his bed. He gets undressed, washes his face, puts on a pair of pyjamas. He listens to the occasional rumble of a car passing by on the street outside, he feels every press of his bare feet on the floorboards. Every movement feels calculated and forced, like he’s working to keep up some kind of barrier between himself and the reality of what he’s done. The truth of what has been started.

He folds his clothes into a neat pile; he avoids looking at himself in the mirror. He takes several deep breaths and they do very little to ground him. 

It takes him half an hour to actually get into bed. He considers phoning Niles, just for something to do, but instantly decides against it. In the end, he sends him a message asking not to be disturbed, ensuring him that everything is fine and he will call him the next day. He doesn’t receive a reply.

Beneath the covers, it feels as if two great hands are pressing him down into the mattress, a force pushing so heavily against his ribcage that he can almost hear his body creak with the weight of it. He feels stupid for having embarked upon any of this in the first place. He tells himself that it’s not worth it, that he should stop before somebody gets hurt - the fallout of this would have far more victims than just himself and Hank. He tells himself that it’s just a silly crush, that what happened in the airplane was nothing more than a lust-driven mistake.

Despite everything, he knows he’s lying to himself. He knows that what has been uncovered - this hidden secret, his heart in Hank’s hands - cannot be reburied. He is powerless to stop it; there is no solution except to continue on through this labyrinth, with no knowledge of what might be around the next turn. Uncertain when, or if, they will find a way out.

He entertains, for a short, ridiculous second, the idea of leaving the country. Running away and abandoning all of this, taking Hank with him to live in some tiny offshore settlement in the Hebrides. It’s ridiculous. He knows he can’t abandon his position, logistically as much as morally. He can’t leave his brother, alone in his sad tower. And what about Hank? How can Connor know that he wants the same things? Perhaps he’s in his embassy room now, regretting the whole thing.

He turns onto his front, breathing heavily into his pillow. Imagine if his life was normal, if he could just send Hank a quick message and ask if he’s okay, confirm what it is that Hank wants to do about all this. It’s like fumbling in the dark, with only the most tenuous grasp on Hank’s feelings as a silver string to guide him through. He can still feel Hank’s hands all over him, the warmth of his mouth, breathing pleasure right to the very tips of Connor’s fingers. He can still hear his voice. What if he could just go and see him now? What if he could feel their bodies pressed together again?

In the end, Connor swallows down his frustration, knowing full well that there is no point indulging in what if’s. He’s spent enough of his life doing that and it certainly won’t help him now. He passes a hand wearily across his face and discovers that his cheeks are wet with tears. 

When he sleeps, finally, his rest is like that of the dead, utterly dreamless, and he is thankful for it.

* * *

A few weeks pass, and the trees lining the streets outside Connor’s house begin to change colour, September bleeding its way, red-gold and brown, into October. There have been numerous articles published about his Labor Day visit to Washington, including a very glossy interview in one of the country’s high-end lifestyle publications. Connor’s not sure how much truth many of the articles contain - he reads about his and the President’s boat trip down the Potomac, which, although it might have been nice, certainly didn’t happen. 

Ironically, the fabrications are ten times less far-fetched than the reality. Connor thinks about that reality constantly: the kiss in Hank’s office, the incredible course of desire that led to him being bent at the waist in an airplane bathroom. He thinks about it most when he’s alone at night and he imagines what it would be like to have a warm body beside him, silver hair spread out over his pillowcase.

Connor doesn’t hear from Hank. Not personally, at least, he reads his words in the press and he hears that his recent meetings with the Prime Minister have been focused away from any matters of the monarchy. He sees Hank’s face in the papers and recalls how his features look when they are animated. It is almost unbearable to watch him come to life on a television screen. It makes Connor’s chest hurt, knowing that he is so far away. 

One afternoon, with the city beneath an autumn grey sky, the sunlight barely managing to break through the clouds, there’s a knock at Connor’s door. He’d spent most of the past week in Paris, part of one of the arts organisations that he’s a patron of, and he desperately hopes that it’s not a summons from Niles, requesting his attendance at the palace. 

It’s not. It’s one of his brother’s staff, holding a wide, shallow box in his hands. 

“Good afternoon, Your Highness,” he says. “A package for you was delivered to the palace.”

Connor frowns. He doesn’t want to appear rude, but it’s slightly unconventional for deliveries to come to him via his brother. None of their advisors have ‘postman’ in their job description, he’s sure of that.

“Why wasn’t it delivered straight here?” he asks. “I don’t live in the palace.”

“It’s postmarked from the United States. The White House.” 

From Hank? Connor’s heart jumps. Surely it’s not from him personally - just from some White House lackey sending on some fancily packaged documents. 

“His Majesty explained that they probably couldn’t access your direct address, so they just sent it to the palace.”

Although Connor tries to keep his face as neutral as possible, something - shock, sadness, excitement - must ghost over his features, because the man on his doorstep looks concerned. 

“Don’t worry, Your Highness, it’s all been checked.”

“Thank you.” He reaches out, finally, for the box and it’s placed into his hands. It’s heavier than he expected. 

“Would you like me to check it through with you?” 

Standard practice, but Connor doesn’t think he’s in much danger. The thought of someone, virtually a stranger, going through his post with him verges on mortifying.

“No, thank you. I’ll be fine.”

With the door clicked closed, Connor carries the parcel through into his study, a small room at the back of the house. It’s a sleek, off-white box with a printed label, that ever ubiquitous Presidential seal tacked onto each of the six faces. 

_It’s all been checked._ So it must be something entirely mundane; Hank isn’t naive enough to send anything… sensitive directly to the palace. Connor doesn’t let disappointment soak over his shoulders the way it so desperately wants to, telling himself that there was no point in getting his hopes up in the first place.

He runs a letter opener around the edges and slides the lid off. Inside is a jacket, neatly folded with the arms wrapped around itself, and on top of it, a note handwritten on white card: “Some items left behind in the Lincoln Bedroom -- With Regards.” Is it Hank’s handwriting? Connor wouldn’t know. He holds it briefly to his lips as he surveys the remaining contents of the box.

There’s a suit jacket, dark blue and slim cut; two dress shirts with impeccably pleated fronts; a pair of socks with bright green caps at the toes and heels. Despite the note explaining that they are things that were left behind in one of the White House bedrooms, Connor does not recognise a single garment in the box. He removes them one by one and lays them out over his desk. They look to be his size, they’re certainly not Hank’s clothes, but - unless he’s having some great, uncharacteristic slip in his memory - they’re not Connor’s either. 

Has Hank sent him these clothes? Are they a gift? Connor stares, puzzled, at the fine gloss of the suit fabric. It shimmers in the grey afternoon light filtering in through the window. Connor is reminded of the suit that Hank had worn on the first evening that they had met, when they had sat together in the White House dining room and Connor had thought Hank uncouth for calling him by the wrong title. How things change.

Without really knowing why, he picks up the jacket and shrugs it on. The first thing he notices is that it fits him absolutely perfectly, hugging the lines of his shoulders, tapering in just right along his waist. 

The second thing he notices is that the jacket has a pocket sewn into the lining, hugging close to Connor’s ribcage. He only knows that because there’s something inside it.

He slides his hand into the jacket, fumbling for a moment before his fingers brush against the object pressing into his side. It’s hard, cool and smooth to the touch. It feels like a recording device, and he wonders for a quick, dense moment whether Hank has sent an FBI bug to his house. Surely not.

No. On closer inspection - actually doing the sensible thing and pulling the object out to look at it - it’s a phone. Sleek and black, a slightly older model than the one Connor has lying on the coffee table in his living room. He feels a jolt of excitement cut sharply through the curiosity and uncertainty still clouding his brain. Keeping the phone in one hand, he shrugs off the jacket, laying it over the desk again. The thick, structured material falls perfectly, with no indication that there was ever a concealment there in the first place - you would have to put the jacket on discover it. A secret, hidden just for him. 

He pulls out the desk chair and sits. He hovers over the power button, his fingers jumping with nerves, even in the dark and seclusion of his private office in his empty house. A moment passes - he checks over his shoulder, although there cannot possibly be anyone there - and he turns the handset on. 

Whatever he was expecting, he doesn’t get it. The phone is completely blank, nothing but a generic wallpaper and the preinstalled apps. He checks in every possible window; there are no photos, no contacts, nothing. He can’t help but feel disappointed at the discovery, or rather, the lack of it. 

All the same, he doesn’t mark the phone down as a lost cause. Hank sent him the package of clothes and the handset concealed within it, so it must have some greater meaning, just one that hasn’t been revealed to him yet. He puts the phone in his pocket and he thinks about Hank more than usual.

Although he checks the screen surreptitiously throughout the day, the display continues to show him nothing but the time - a steady reminder of the number of hours that have passed since he first opened the package. He begins to think that nothing will happen. Perhaps Hank has decided against whatever plan he concocted. Connor vows to give it a few more days and then toss the phone out with the rubbish, or better yet, into the turbid waters of the Thames.

When he goes to bed that night, he switches the new handset onto loud, and lays it beside his current phone, which is resolutely set to Do Not Disturb. He finds it hard to sleep, lying in the dark, with the promise of the unknown crackling in the silence of his bedroom. 

Once his bedside light is off, however, he doesn’t have to wait long. There are two loud pings from the table beside his bed, and the ceiling is instantly flooded with a brilliant, blue-white light. He feels the excitement flood his chest, the sensation so swift and heady that he has to take a moment to catch his breath; his heart beating a two-step rhythm at the back of his mouth. His palms prickle, as if, after all those hours of waiting, he’s reluctant to pick up the handset at all.

On the screen, there are two new notification bubbles. An unknown number has sent a photo, one reads, and the next: an unknown number has sent a message. Hardly daring to believe the truth of what is happening, Connor unlocks the phone and taps on the little green square to take him through to his messages. 

The photo appears first. It’s slightly out of focus, but once Connor realises what it is, his dancing heartbeat seems to pause for a long, aching moment.

It’s a glass of whisky, the crystal throwing rainbow reflections through the amber liquid onto the mahogany wood below. And wrapped around the glass, just visible in the corner of the frame, is the edge of a hand. Hank’s hand.

There’s a message below it.

_(00:23) Trade you this for a message._

Trade you. The memory makes Connor blush. He sits up in bed and switches on the light, lessening the bright glare of the screen somewhat. It takes him a minute to decide how to respond. He wants to impress Hank, as if this is their first conversation after hooking up in a bar, as if the weight of their positions on the world stage have been reduced to nothing.

(00:27) How about something stronger?

A reply comes back almost instantly.

_(00:28) Like what?_

They both know what, of course, and Connor remembers the feeling of Hank’s mouth.

(00:28) A kiss?

It’s Hank on the other end of the line. Whatever doubts had been crawling in the back of his mind have been quickly shot down by Hank’s introduction - a secret code that only the two of them know the answer to.

_(00:30) That’s pretty forward for a text from a strange number_

The reply makes Connor smile. He taps out a response and sends it before he has time to second guess himself. 

(00:31) Inviting someone into a bathroom is pretty forward too.

There’s a moment with no reply, where the three dots appear to indicate that Hank is typing. They stop, reappear, stop again. 

In the end, two words is more than enough. 

_(00:32) Hello, Connor._

(00:32) Hello, Hank.

Their names, traded like a kiss across thousands of miles. Connor takes a deep breath. So they’re really doing this. Okay.

They talk a while longer, although it’s nothing profound, mostly setting out guidance about the safest way to manage this. No photographs of their faces or anything too recognisable. No phone calls. The handsets - Hank has his own, the same model, with only one contact in it - must stay locked, with a passcode, and aren’t to be taken out in public.

The intensity and detail with which Hank has planned each step of this operation makes Connor feel guilty that he ever doubted him. Arguably, embarking on this - whatever this is - is more dangerous for Hank than for Connor. He’s an elected official, after all, acting in a role that is a far cry from the ceremonial position that Connor holds. If they were to be caught… Connor pushes the thought from his mind. He can’t consider the possibility.

With all the ground rules laid and agreed upon, there’s a lull in their conversation - uncertainty about where to go next, an acknowledgement that all of this is still new and exciting and easily shattered.

Hank guides the conversation to its close. 

_(01:02) It’s late, Connor. You should go to sleep._

I don’t want to sleep. He types the message out, lets his thumb hover over the send button. He wants to stay awake until the morning, he wants to hold Hank’s words in the palm of his hand until the sunlight starts to creep in through the gap in his curtains. And if he’s making wishes, he’d like to wake up with Hank beside him in the morning, to curl into the warmth of his chest. To listen to his sleeping breaths.

He deletes the message, worrying that it might be too charged.

_(01:03) Yes, I should._

(01:03) I’ll speak to you tomorrow.

A promise. Connor gets back underneath his bed covers and sends a final text - two words, more than enough. 

(01:04) Goodnight, Hank.

_(01:05) Goodnight, Connor xx_

* * *

As much as he would like to go against all the rules that have been set, calling Hank at all hours of the day, sending snapshots of his life that could bridge the gap until they see each other again, Connor doesn’t. He’s not stupid. He recognises the dangers, and alongside it he recognises the magnetic draw, the sparkling attraction, both of which outweigh any perils or uncertainties.

Their unique way of communicating makes the development of their relationship vastly different to anything that Connor has embarked upon before. All his past relationships have been unceremoniously catapulted into the public eye - most of them with his permission, a way of rebelling against the institution without actually having to commit treason or get himself sent to the top of his family’s blacklist. Whirlwinds and tempests, his relationships have always ended in upset and anger, a sharp crack of lightning, purple clouds. 

But with Hank, everything changes. He’s no longer focused on how they might be viewed from an outsider’s perspective. He takes his time in getting to know Hank, finding out things about him, asking questions. Storms long blown out, Connor’s feelings develop like sunlight against his face.

October has brought with it an unexpected cold snap, icy mornings where frost decorates the newly fallen leaves like fine cobwebs. It also brings something more predictable, something that Connor had been expecting but avoiding all thought of - a phone call explaining that he has been summoned to the palace. He hasn’t been there since his first debriefing with Niles at the end of July, and he half-heartedly thinks of making an excuse not to attend now.

“Your mother will be in attendance,” explains the curt voice on the other end of the line. That’s a damning insistence that he attend if there ever was one.

“Tell Niles I’ll be there,” Connor replies. “Thank you.” He replaces the handset and stares out at his darkening garden, watching how the sky turns orange and pink behind the line of distant trees. That evening, he messages Hank explaining that the next day, he will be meeting with his mother and brother at the palace. 

_(21:34) Make sure they plan you a DC visit._

Connor grins at the message. Although they only communicate through texts, Connor has come to learn that Hank has a dry sense of humour and a sharp edge to his tongue that makes Connor laugh. In his sweeter moments, in the darkness, he has a certain rough way with words that makes Connor’s breath come fast, his heart beat hard. He longs to hear how these things would sound if Hank were to say them aloud, that deep, orator’s voice turned low and intimate. 

(21:35) Let’s hope so.  
(21:35) I’ll see what I can do.

Connor has to wait a little while for a reply - hardly a surprise anymore, it’s something he has become used to - but when it arrives, it’s more than worth it.

_(22:04) I miss you._

(22:04) I miss you.

_(22:05) Good luck tomorrow._

Connor’s not sure whether he’ll need it or not. He goes to sleep that night with something warm curled around his heart: the knowledge that Hank misses him.

The next morning, a car pulls up outside Connor’s house to take him to the palace. He can tell that it has been sent by his mother because it arrives at 10:42, eighteen minutes before their scheduled meeting time. The drive from his house to the palace takes almost exactly a quarter of an hour, but he’s sure that his mother will have factored for the road works and traffic that might delay him, as is her exacting way.

When he arrives, he is shown through to one of the garden rooms, his mother’s favourite place to receive guests. It overlooks the same patio where he and Niles had sat in the summer months, although the weather today is quite different. The stones shine with recent rain. A short distance away, the award-winning rose gardens sit dull and dark beneath the heavy sky.

His mother and brother are sitting together at a small table in front of the tall French windows, a pot of tea between them. Three willow patterned cups. They both stand as Connor enters, needlessly formal, but his mother has always been one to uphold the rigour of the old traditions: if they worked in the past, why shouldn’t they continue to work now? Connor isn’t sure if that theory holds any truth at all, but he’s learnt not to argue.

“Good morning, Connor.” His mother extends her hand, and Connor presses his lips to the broad face of the ring on her left index finger. Three blue stones set into silver, once his father’s, since resized and repurposed. She wears matching strands threaded through her intricate braids, the silver glowing almost white against her black hair. 

“Good morning, Mother.” 

Niles doesn’t say anything. Connor thinks he looks tired. There are dark circles beneath his eyes, and his skin has a pale, chalky quality to it that makes him appear almost grey in the late morning light. Connor wonders what they were discussing before his arrival. Whatever it was, Niles has pulled a hard, still mask over the aftermath of it. He looks tired, and underneath that, he looks sad.

“Take a seat,” Amanda says, gesturing with one finely jewelled hand. “Please.”

Connor sits in the remaining chair with his back to the window. In this position, it feels a little as though he’s about to be interrogated by the pair of them, a feeling which may not be too far from the truth of the matter.

They exchange a few pleasantries to begin with - how the weather has taken a turn, how Connor would like his tea. But the formalities don’t last long. Just like Niles, Amanda has a way of cutting straight to the matter of things. 

“I must apologise, Connor,” she starts, and the way she strings her words together, as sweet and sharp as spun sugar, tells him instantly that she is not really sorry at all, “for not calling you sooner to discuss your recent achievements.”

Connor takes a sip of his tea. He will let her enumerate exactly what she deems to be his achievements.

“Your diplomatic forays with President Anderson,” she continues. “Quite impressive. If a little unconventional.”

There it is. The other hand come round to slap his cheek after the first had just gifted him a compliment. He keeps his expression as neutral as possible, waiting to be invited to speak. 

“Tell me. What is your relationship with President Anderson like?”

Connor feels his stomach tighten, performing a single, sickening turn inside him, settling uncomfortably somewhere beneath his lungs. He refuses to allow the emotion to show on his face. What he cannot stop, however, is the sudden press of images that fill his mind: the furrow of Hank’s brow in the golden light of his private office; the words exchanged between them, low and charged. The phone in the drawer of his bedside table, a secret gift. I miss you.

“It’s very positive,” he replies, and despite the brevity of his answer, Amanda nods, apparently satisfied.

“I thought as much.”

“Before you arrived, we were discussing my most recent meeting with the Prime Minister,” Niles says. His words are clipped, hard at the edges, and Connor’s certain that that wasn’t all they were discussing. “I’m sure you’ve heard that it hasn’t been smooth sailing for him recently.”

Connor’s heard as much. Dissent in his own cabinet, fiery arguments in both Houses. Riots spilling out of parliament and onto the streets.

“He explained how he regards the monarchy as a pillar of stability and constancy in times like this,” Niles continues, “whatever ideas the President was intending to impart a few months ago, they’ve clearly been forgotten.”

“I’m proud of you, Connor,” his mother adds, and as she speaks her gaze is like sheet metal, hard and unyielding. He wonders if she means for her voice to sound so cold around words that should certainly have some warm intent behind them. “Our family doesn’t often make these kinds of political connections. But if that is what the time calls for, then I suppose we should be prepared to adapt.” She bites down around the last word as if it is an expletive. 

“All the same.” His mother adjusts her gown, smoothing the pale material out over her knees. It ripples beneath her hands. “Now that you have made these inroads, it seems unfair that you should carry the burden all by yourself.”

That would hardly be an inconvenience, Connor thinks. He doesn’t say anything.

“We must all be seen to be making equal efforts with the President,” she says, “if that is how this relationship is going to continue to develop.”

Connor imagines his mother and Hank seated together at a state dinner. Although he feels a certain reluctance - albeit petty and unprofessional - to relinquish his monopolised relationship with Hank, it might be worth it just to see that.

“Of course,” Connor agrees.

“The end of the year is fast approaching.” Connor can tell from the directness in her words that some plans have already been made. “Of course, the run up to Christmas is a busy time for any head of state, but the new year does tend to bring fewer appointments. If we were to invite the President for a long weekend in the Highlands in the new year, how do you think that invitation would be received?”

Connor’s heart jumps into his throat. It is one of his favourite times of the year, the fortnight sequestered away in their country home, wild and blustery, sitting on the muddy banks of a black lake. Hills surrounding it, dark with old heather. Connor knows the layout of the house as well as that of his own home, better, even. He knows that it has many empty rooms. You could go a whole day without seeing anyone.

“I think that sounds like a very good idea,” Connor says. “If President Anderson is not already engaged.”

Amanda nods. “We will extend the invitation as soon as possible.”

Connor stays a little longer, finishing his first cup of tea and pouring a second. They don’t discuss Hank any longer, focusing instead on Connor’s recent sojourns in Europe, Amanda’s recent trip to the Far East. The entire time, Connor’s mind stays focused on the new year, refusing to stray far away from Hank. How he would look in that high, fresh wind, whipping up around his face; how blue his eyes would appear against the freezing sky. And in the long, dark evenings, how he might hold Connor, close and quiet. Out there, in the hills, the great wheel of stars shines brightly enough to light a room.

He knows that Hank will want to say yes to the invitation. Connor only hopes that he can.

* * *

As the weeks pass, the days begin to darken around the edges, pulling in tight around the city. They bring long, dark mornings, where the sun seems to creep over the horizon in impossibly small increments, the bare branches of the trees cast in silhouette against the white sky. 

Connor and Hank continue to send each other messages with ever increasing frequency. One morning in November, Connor sends Hank a picture of his back garden: how the change in the seasons has stripped it of all colour, leaving behind some beautiful husky imprint of what once was. Hank replies with a picture of Sumo, his huge St Bernard, chasing a bird across a frosty lawn. Connor suspects that both of the pictures are beginning to flout their carefully constructed rules. He also finds, with a sparkling, electric thrill, that the fact of the matter doesn’t really bother him. He’s broken rules before. 

More than once, Connor falls asleep with the phone curled tightly in his fist. That’s the time of day when they are able to talk most freely, when Connor creeps towards midnight, even threatening to tip over into the small hours of the morning. Sometimes, they discuss their days. Although neither of them are particularly well placed to offer the other advice, they listen, they sympathise. Connor begins to feel as if Hank is a pillar - steady and stable - around which he would be able to build much of his life. 

Other times, Connor thinks about the brush of Hank’s lips against his own, the desperate grip of his fingers at his hips. He tells Hank as much. Connor has to content himself with imagining that his own slender hands can compare in any way to Hank’s, thick and broad, slightly rough. Surely much stronger than he is. And he has to content himself with hearing Hank only in his head, those guiding, commanding words have to transform from text into that incredible, irresistible voice. 

And when he lies in bed afterwards, spent, staring unseeing at the ceiling, the amount that he misses Hank beats a strange and empty rhythm in his chest. 

The strange and tortuous thing about the whole affair is that Connor doesn’t have to rely solely on his imagination to recreate the sound of Hank’s voice, the ebb and flow of his words. He sees him often on the television, hears soundbites of his voice - often the same ones, over and over - when he listens to the morning news. Connor can’t avoid it, and even if he could, he doesn’t think that he’d want to. He feels close to Hank for that moment, as if he is reaching out across the ocean and across the miles, and placing his hand against Connor’s jaw. 

It gets harder, though, as the weeks wear on. It gets harder to lay still and do nothing but imagine. Night after night, his thumb hovers over the button that would allow him to call Hank, to hear his voice down the line, to hear him say his name. The longing rests heavily in his chest; it settles like tar around his lungs and his stupid, lovesick heart. 

In the last week of November, the country is starting its rapid barrel towards Christmas - shopping centres are hanging their decorations, the tinny renditions of well-known carols have become impossible to avoid. Connor thinks what he might buy for Hank as a Christmas present. It’s a passing consideration, really, but the thought nestles itself at the back of his brain and refuses to let go completely.

It’s a Thursday, and his mother has instructed him to take the evening to himself. The weeks in the run up to Christmas are full of official visits, dinners, audiences, and just the very thought of it makes Connor want to lay down and hibernate until the spring. He’s grateful for the evening alone, curled up on his sofa in front of the television, his hands wrapped around a large mug of tea.

When the six o'clock news starts, the first headline makes Connor sit up straight, leaning in a little closer to the television set.

_President Hank Anderson Gives First Thanksgiving Address._

Of course. He had barely registered the approach of that particular holiday, what with his own country - and by extension, his own family - so intensely focused on the Christmas celebrations to come. The image of Hank flashes onto the screen. He looks handsome, Connor thinks, his first, dense thought. He’s had his beard trimmed very close and all his hair is pushed back off his face, neat, sharp, professional. His suit is dark and his tie, bright blue, even bluer than his eyes, shines against the crisp white of his shirt. Connor resists the urge to follow the line of his chin on the screen.

Although the news broadcast doesn’t show the entire address, it’s enough. Hank addresses the camera directly, an intimate conversation between him and the person sitting in their dining room. The closeness of it makes Connor’s heart ache. Hank talks about what he is thankful for: a good first year in office - an understatement, judging by the recent polls - the positive steps that his country has made. He discusses the improved international relationships, mentioning how much he has learnt about himself and others. Is that a subtle reference? Connor doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but he can’t help the thrill that buzzes inside him. 

When the section on Hank finishes, Connor releases a shaking, sudden breath, one he didn’t even realise that he was holding. His fingers spark and tingle with the desire to reach out and touch Hank, to wrap his hand around Hank’s forearm and pull him in close. He wants to feel his breath quicken, see his blue eyes grow dark with desire.

Shrugging the image off him, before it becomes too heavy to shift, Connor pulls Hank’s handset from his pocket and writes a message. 

(18:10) I just watched your thanksgiving address. 

He waits a few minutes, telling himself that he’s waiting to see if Hank will appear online, those three dots. Really, he’s steeling himself for what he’s about to write next, the words that beat in his heart, steady and honest. His fingers move slowly over the screen.

(18:14) I want to hear your voice. 

(18:14) Speaking to me, not to anyone else.

Connor stares at the little coloured bubbles, wondering if he’s made a mistake. If he’s been too reckless. A notice - Delivered - tells him that there’s no way he can withdraw his sentiments now. He just has to wait, his heartbeat a heavy, sickly metronome in his throat.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait too long for a reply. He wonders what Hank is doing. Is he having Thanksgiving dinner in the White House? Or has he broken their rules and taken the phone out with him? Connor imagines seeing photographs of him at an event, pulling out the handset and checking it, reading Connor’s messages for the whole world to see. The thought makes him feel sick. Sick and excited and breathless.

_(20:01) I’ll see what i can do_

It’s a hasty message, Connor thinks, rushed out in a quiet moment. He doesn’t reply, instead he turns the phone onto loud and slides it into his pocket, keeping it as close to him as he can.

Nothing happens for a few hours. Connor gets ready for bed, slow and focused, taking his time - and checking the phone’s blank lock screen more times than he would care to count. Just as he’s about to place the handset onto his bedside table and get into bed, it buzzes. Just once. Like he’s receiving a message. 

Then twice.

Then a thin, metallic tone begins to play, one that he has never heard before. 

Someone is calling him. His entire chest takes a leap upwards against his throat, pushing all the air out of his lungs and leaving him suddenly breathless. It’s Hank. It’s Hank, it has to be. And if it’s not Hank then god, someone else has got hold of this number and everything is over. 

Connor doesn’t recognise the number on the screen. It’s not the one that Hank usually messages from. He can feel himself shaking as he presses on the green icon: Accept.

“Hello?” Connor keeps his voice low, as if that might stop him from being identified in any worst case scenarios. He’s surprised anyone would be able to hear him anyway, not over the pounding of his own heart. 

“Connor. Connor, it’s me.” The voice on the other end of the line is so familiar that for a moment Connor feels lightheaded, weightless. The sound of his name warms him like sunlight. “It’s Hank.”

He lets the voice sink in, flow through him, catch in the empty corners of his mind. Knees weak, legs trembling, he has to take a seat on the edge of the bed.

“Connor, are you there?”

“Hank.” How good it is to say his name. “Hank. I’m here.”

“Oh, thank god.” Relief rushes in Hank’s voice, pouring through Connor in turn - down the tense column of his spine, right to the ends of his anxious fingers. “Hello.”

“Hello.” 

There’s a pause, as if neither of them can really believe what is happening. The line crackles. It’s Hank who speaks first.

“It’s good to hear your voice.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A phonecall, a reunion.

Connor knows that he is holding the phone too tightly in his hand. The hard plastic casing presses a red welt into the ridge of his palm. He barely notices. It’s Hank’s voice, Hank, on the other end of the line. After only reading his words, after only hearing his voice distant and professional and not directed towards him, the sound is so resonant and miraculous that he can barely believe it. He has to pinch the inside of his wrist, just to make sure that he hasn’t fallen into some incredible dream; he half-expects to wake up, alone in his empty, dark bedroom. 

“I was going crazy, not being able to talk to you properly,” Hank says, with a low, self-effacing chuckle. “Glad you said something.”

As Hank speaks, his voice rumbles through Connor, a tidal wave drawn out into slow motion. It settles heavily inside him, thick and sweet as molasses around the chambers of his heart. He wants to ask him to talk and talk and never stop. 

“You okay?” Hank asks. 

Connor was getting lost in him again. He does his best to shake himself free.

“It’s a lot,” Connor explains, tipping forwards where he’s sitting so his elbows are resting on his knees. “Just—just being able to talk to you like this.”

Hank makes a sound of agreement somewhere in the back of his throat. It’s a dangerous sound: a rough aspiration, almost a grunt in his deep tone. Connor is reminded—the memory never far from the surface of his mind—of a cramped airplane bathroom, the counter pressed against his cheek, and Hank’s low murmurs, the heat of his breath at the shell of Connor’s ear. The scene stirs inside him. 

“I’ve got an interesting invitation from your mother,” Hank says, the sudden return to reality and formality pulling Connor from his white-tiled imaginings. “Asking me to a weekend in your Highland retreat. Not sure if I’m going to accept.”

“You’re going to accept.”

“Of course I am,” Hank says, and Connor can hear his smile. He wishes that he could see it. “There are things that need to be rearranged, though. I’ll get there.”

There’s another hissing pause before Hank speaks again.

“I think about you all the time.”

The words strike Connor like a flat hand against his sternum. They fizzle and crackle along his nerves, turning his blood white-hot, filling his chest with bright light. Any doubts about Hank’s commitment to him are dispelled, shattered by that simple sentence.

“Do you?” 

When Connor speaks, his voice is small, cracking. Hank has made him weak.

“Connor.” Hank says his name again, so delicious and so sincere that he almost sounds sad. “Do you know how much I miss you?”

Connor shakes his head, forgetting that Hank can’t see him. It doesn’t really matter. It’s as if Hank has drawn close to sit alongside him, his words wrapped like a heavy arm around Connor’s shoulders, his voice like a hand against his chest, his waist, the softness of his inner thigh. The intimacy makes him shudder.

“No,” Connor replies, although he’s certain he does know. He knows what it feels like: missing him. It feels like a fist closed around his heart. “Tell me.”

Connor can hear Hank’s breath at the other end of the line; he’s forcing himself steady, forcing himself to take time over what he’s going to say next.

“I see you sometimes—on the TV, in the newspaper,” Hank starts. There’s a steady, measured evenness in his voice that tells Connor he is doing his very best to stay calm. “I can’t think about anything else for the rest of the day.”

Connor swallows, his throat tight. “Oh?”

“I think about that first night, when you came into my office. You weren’t even wearing shoes.”

Connor doesn’t dare speak, lest he break the spell that has been cast by Hank’s voice, thrown like a loose net over the bedroom. It’s just him and Hank’s voice—that low, honeyed rumble; they are the only two things left in the whole world. 

“I think about how you asked to be kissed,” Hank continues, and there’s a darker edge entering his voice; it makes something stir beneath the tight, aching longing that has pooled in Connor’s stomach. Hotter, brighter, like a coil of fierce wire. “Brazen.”

Connor remembers the airplane bathroom again. He remembers Hank’s mouth kissing his own, then his shoulder blade, then every freckle lined up along the chain of his vertebrae. He’s half-hard before he realises it, palming himself absently through the thin fabric of his pyjama trousers. 

As if Hank can see him, as if he can hear every ebb and flow of his thoughts, he says: “I think about you underneath me.”

Connor can’t help the quiet, breathy gasp that escapes from his lips. Far from breaking the spell though, as Connor had feared, it only serves to spur Hank on. He laughs, little more than a satisfied growl at the other end of the line, and Connor’s hips roll involuntarily against his own hand. 

“You like that?” Hank asks.

“Hank.” His name is forced out around a desperate, shaking exhale. Connor’s hands find his thighs and clench down tight. “What else?”

“Imagine if we could do that properly,” Hank continues, an undercurrent of wistful longing flowing beneath the initial command and confidence. “I wanna lay you out, Connor, take in every inch of you.”

The image explodes like fireworks before Connor’s eyes—bright and indelible, leaving him momentarily blinded. Hank above him, that looming bulk, his white shirt lying discarded on the floor. It would have been removed by Connor only minutes before, reverent and careful, making sure to trace electric sparks against his skin. The clarity of the scene makes Connor bend almost double, and he’s forced to adjust himself so that he’s leaning back against his pillows. His own hand wrapped around his dick is nothing compared to the rough, firm grip of Hank’s fingers, and the light, quick strokes only make him ache.

“I’d like that.” 

The words pale in comparison to the reality, but Connor doesn’t seem capable of choking out more than a few words at a time. His bedroom is submerged in the golden lamplight glow. He watches his own feet, watches his toes curl into the bedsheets. 

“I bet,” Hank says. He sounds calm and controlled, but Connor wonders if this isn’t affecting him too, whether he isn’t sitting with his belt roughly undone, one hand in his boxers. The image is more powerful than any of Hank’s words. “You deserve to be taken care of, to have time spent on you, to—”

Hank’s voice stops. The pause is as sudden and abrupt as if the line between them had been cut, and Connor would believe there had been some fault in the connection, were it not for the sound of Hank’s breath still rolling through the speaker.

After a long moment, Hank speaks again—just one word, quiet and rough with panic. 

“Shit.”

In Connor’s stomach, a sudden flood of dread spirals out over his desire, dampening and diluting it until he feels nauseous. He doesn’t move. There’s another pause drawn out between them, a hissing silence that is almost too much for Connor to bear. A click. A shuffling of something thousands of miles away: papers, maybe. Clothes. A distant muttering of voices.

Connor’s about to say something when Hank’s voice sounds again, as low and fearful as before. 

“I have to go,” he says. “Sorry.” 

Connor can tell from the pointed edge of his words that he’s trying to inject as much feeling into them while still keeping the overall impression staid and professional. He’s been interrupted. Someone is standing by, ready to unwittingly hear something that could bring institutions to their knees. 

But Hank makes Connor foolish. He makes him foolish and brave and he makes his heart soar into his throat. Instead of responding in kind, Connor sits forward, trying to plunge all of the emotion that he feels for Hank into three simple words. 

“I miss you.”

He wants nothing more than to hear Hank say it back. But there’s no reply. Just a rustle, a click, and a clear, single beep that tells him that Hank has hung up.

In normal circumstances, Connor would feel a flicker of anger towards Hank; a resentment that he hadn’t been able to turn away the person demanding his attention and finish what he started. That he hadn’t let the golden threads of his voice work their way beneath Connor’s skin and take him apart from the inside. 

But he doesn’t feel angry. Not towards Hank, at least. He feels sad, mostly, and his chest opens up into a cavernous longing for things to be different. Hearing Hank’s voice—so warm, so charged—hasn’t done anything to assuage his desperate desire to be near him. If anything, it’s made it worse. 

Placing the phone down on his bedside table, he rolls over onto his side and pulls the covers over him. Even the rich cotton seems to scratch against his sensitive skin. He thinks about getting himself off, mostly for completion's sake or simply to have something to do, but the abruptness and panic at the end of their conversation has put a dampener on his desire. He wraps an arm around his own waist and pretends that someone else is in the bed with him. When he drifts into sleep, he barely registers it.

He gets a text from Hank in the night, although he doesn’t read it until the next morning.

_(03:47) I miss you ___  
_(03:49) I miss you._

* * *

The White House’s response to Amanda’s invitation comes just before Christmas. 

_The President would be delighted to join your family in the Highlands in the new year. With warmest regards._

It’s simple and professional, and Connor can’t help the small flash of disappointment that crackles through him when he sees the pleasant, brief sheen of the President’s words. He has to force himself to remember that this is exactly the way it should be, and anything more personal to him would likely put both of them under suspicion.

As soon as he can, he sends Hank a text. He drafts what seems like a thousand different messages, and each one seems more dramatic than the last. It’s impossible to put into words quite how much it will mean to see Hank again, after months apart, after communicating by text message and a few rushed, anxious phone calls. It’s impossible to articulate the tightness of the fist that closes around his chest when he thinks about Hank. He doesn’t know how to string the blue of his eyes into words.

In the end, he settles on something equally simple and professional, hoping that Hank will be able to calculate the depth of his emotion.

(18:16) Thank you for accepting our invitation x

Hank responds with an echo of some of Connor’s earlier messages, those that he had typed and then deleted and never sent.

_(20:03) Counting down the days._

Connor watches the days on the calendar flicker on, tucking beneath his ribs, alongside his heart, the knowledge that Hank is doing exactly the same thing. Christmas rolls over them before he knows it—bringing with it mornings so frosty that they seem to shimmer around the edges, the air so crisp that you might be able to reach out and snap it in two.

Christmas has always been a strange time of year for their family. Bizarrely performative, even though no one is watching them; dinner is usually meant to be served as an intimate family affair often involving numerous foreign dignitaries and people with whom Connor has never shared more than a few words. It was less constructed when they were children (although Connor often suspects that Niles was never really a child) and when their father was alive: he always insisted on at least a few hours of private family time away from the pressure of their institution. 

Their mother, on the other hand, seems to see the holiday as an opportunity to further extend her hand into the diplomatic foray, to thread new strands onto her many stringed bow. She hardly seems to be without an appointment at this time of year. The image of her schedule—coloured blocks stacked precariously on top of one another—makes Connor feel more than a little uneasy. She flies all over the continent, entertains endless parties of visitors, wears rich, lustrous gowns that shimmer in the winter moonlight.

Connor spends the nights of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in the palace. Sleeping in his childhood bedroom feels like shrugging on a shirt now too small: familiar and uncomfortable, restrictive, with well-known patches worn in at the elbows. It pulls in too tight around his chest. He sleeps fitfully.

On Christmas Day, Connor watches from behind the cameras as Niles gives the King’s address to the nation. It’s his eleventh year doing so, and he delivers the speech with such professionalism and icy brilliance that it makes Connor feel sad. He wonders about the kind of man that his brother would have been without the crown looming heavy on his head, without the mantle of the monarchy sliding like a shadow over his shoulders. He will never know. Niles sits before a selection of gilded frames containing photographs of their family: a large, black and white print of their father sits back and centre, like it’s the funeral all over again. He speaks about the state of their country, the strength of its people, how his family longs to reconnect with nations and heads of state around the modern world. Connor thinks of Hank and his heartbeat clatters.

With no engagements over the new year, Connor takes early leave to their home in the Highlands. His mother expresses her initial disappointment, but Connor has done his Christmas duties, and he must have worked himself into her good books enough to be excused an argument. On one of those strange, sluggish days between Christmas and New Year, he takes a train and heads north. 

Their house sits low on the black water of a brackish loch, surrounded on all sides by rolling hills, the spines of old mountains that recline against each other like sleeping beasts. In the spring, their backs glow golden with gorse, brighter than the sunlight, and in the summer they turn purple and dark with the heather. In the depths of winter, where the still, dark days settle around them as thick as smoke, the heads of even the hardiest flowers have been long plucked off by the biting winds.

From the outside, the house looks rather unassuming, its grey stone walls and gabled roofs barely visible from where it’s nestled in the valley. On the inside, Connor’s mother has overseen numerous renovations, and it boasts many more modern furnishings than its modest exterior might suggest.

Connor arrives beneath empty winter skies. Cloudless in every direction, they seem without end, the great, pale dome of the heavens turning above him. Although it will only be an hour before early darkness descends, Connor leaves his bags at the door and heads across the wide lawn at the back of the house. From there, he knows, hidden in the line of trees, there is a path that will lead him up the steepest edge of the nearest hill, an old worn trail where he and Niles used to play as children. They would race the line of the dragon’s back, fighting monsters along the crest of the beast. Connor remembers these rare moments of childish abandon, fond and long distant now. 

He walks until he feels the city slip from his shoulders, until the breath in his lungs comes thin and clear and his chest is heaving with the effort. Only when he can see the house in the dip of the land below him—warm light from its windows thrown out onto the darkening lawn—does he stop and catch himself. The ends of his fingers are numb with the cold, his breath rolling out in thick plumes before him. He affords himself a moment of quiet, of empty space, before turning back to the house. 

Three days into January, Niles and his mother join him. They have had their various appointments over the new year celebrations, and Connor hopes, as he so often does, that his brother managed to relax and enjoy himself, even for the briefest moment. From his pinched expression and the dark rings beneath his eyes, Connor can tell that his hopes have been misplaced. Guilt settles in the depths of his ribcage—guilt at his own relative freedom, at his own loose ties to his duty. Guilt at the unknown, unspoken danger in which he continues to place his family.

Hank is due to arrive on the first Sunday of the year, flying in via the city so that he can spend an evening with the Prime Minister. Their mother spends the entire weekend preparing, her team of staff cleaning and redressing the master bedroom and its adjoining suites so that the President can stay there. They make the rooms up in navy and white, dark tartan accents tying the new decor together until Connor barely recognises the room where his mother and father used to sleep on their childhood visits to the house.

“I just want him to feel at home,” Amanda says, when Connor asks about the change. He knows that’s not strictly true. She’s trying to impress. Well, fair enough.

The imminence of Hank’s arrival burns like a crown of embers settled around Connor’s heart: a constant reminder, a crackling heat that occasionally sends sparks through him until his hands shake. Months. It’s been months. 

Connor spends the days curled in one of the cushioned window seats, a book resting in his lap. He barely turns a page. He lets his brain spool out long fantasies about what will happen when Hank gets here, about the loaded secrecy of their words, ankles pressed together beneath the dining table; how Hank will take him beneath the dark drapes of the master four poster bed, his big hand clamped down around Connor’s mouth. If he felt guilty about the danger of their affair, it begins to be eclipsed by his own selfish excitement.

The call comes on Sunday morning, twelve hours before Hank is due to arrive. His mother discusses it in a low voice with her chief of staff and then relays the information to Connor and Niles, seated together at the breakfast table. The whole room smells bitter and sharp, the smell of the thick, freshly ground coffee that Niles likes to drink. 

“Unfortunately,” his mother begins, and instantly, Connor feels his stomach drop. 

Hank isn’t coming. That’s what it is, it has to be. He’s reconsidered his offer, he’s been held up, he’s not coming. They will have to wait months and months to see each other again. 

Amanda continues.

“The President has been delayed. He’ll arrive in the early hours of tomorrow morning. There will be no welcome dinner this evening.”

Connor tries to keep his expression as neutral as possible, despite the fact that the despondent freefall of his own mood has been rapidly halted and forced back into a heady upswing by his mother’s overreaction. What does it matter, as long as he’s coming?

Thankfully, Niles speaks so that Connor doesn’t have to. 

“That’s a shame,” he says. “We shall have to organise something for later on in the week.”

Their mother nods, and excuses herself to sort out the rearrangements. She leaves her coffee undrunk, the dark liquid sending spirals of steam into the early sunbeams.

When Connor goes to bed that night—spared the confines of the boxy, shiny tuxedo that his mother had picked out for him—he knows that he isn’t going to sleep properly. He knows every noise intimately: every creak and groan of the house settling on its haunches, every whisper of wind making the trees outside buckle and sweep against the windows. 

Amanda had deemed it improper for them to stay up to greet Hank. 

“What if he arrives at four o’ clock in the morning and we’re waiting looking like ghouls in the night?” she’d asked, her expression vaguely appalled. “No. The staff will greet him and we will introduce ourselves over breakfast in the morning.”

Connor had neither energy nor appropriate reason to argue. So he lies restlessly beneath his covers, listening out for the rumble of wheels on the driveway. On the occasions that he glances out of the window at the country surrounding them, the sight is so dark and expansive that there could be anything out there—the hills turned to the black sea, lapping up at the sides of their house. His heart flutters whenever he sees headlamps glitter in the distance, like stars rising and falling on a far off horizon.

Despite his insistence that he wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink, Connor must drift off at some point, rolling between fitful half-dreams and half-awareness of reality. He wakes with a start, something pulling him bodily to full consciousness. On his bedside table, the shadowed clock face shows a quarter to four. 

It takes him a brief, confused minute to work out what it was that woke him. Swimming slowly into his mind, clearing the final mists of sleep, he realises that the light seeping in beneath his curtain is not coming from an unseasonably early sunrise, but from the lamps lining the driveway. They switch on when a car approaches in the dark. 

He scrambles out from beneath the covers, barely noticing the slight shiver of his shoulders in the cold room, and pulls aside the curtain. He can’t see the entrance of the house properly from his window, but he can see the back end of a black car, its headlamps glowing red and white across the stone. A few figures move back and forth in the light that falls through the front door, casting shadows onto the lawn. One of those shadows belongs to Hank. The thought makes Connor’s knees grow suddenly weak, and he has to stumble back to take a seat on the edge of his bed.

He doesn’t sleep. He sits and watches the sun rise over the hills. With his knees curled against his chest, he counts down every second against the thrumming of his heartbeat.

After what seems like an eternity spent with his back pressed against the cool wall of his childhood bedroom, there’s a knock at Connor’s door. He takes his time pulling on his dressing gown before he opens it, as if that will fool the person on the other side into thinking that he hasn’t been sitting up all night.

It’s Niles. 

“Oh.” Connor is unable to hide the confusion in his voice, the furrow that knits itself into his forehead. Niles, delivering his own invitation to breakfast? Unheard of. “Morning.”

“Good morning.”

His brother is wearing a sleek black tracksuit, the jacket of which is zipped right up beneath his pointed chin, and he’s holding a muddied pair of trainers in his right hand. He’s been running before breakfast. The thought makes Connor feel a little bit sick. 

“Mother says that breakfast will be served in half an hour.”

“Why are you delivering her messages?” Connor asks, leaning against the door frame. 

Niles scowls, the expression no more than a subtle darkening of his brow.

“Most of her staff were up half the night waiting for the President to arrive. She’s given them the morning off.”

Connor raises an eyebrow. That sounds very much like their mother making further attempts to impress their present company, a way of appearing modern and lenient, and less iron-fisted.

“Did he arrive safely? The President, I mean,” Connor asks, doing his best to sound as nonchalant as possible. 

“Perfectly, I believe,” Niles replies, and despite Connor’s best efforts, a look of uncertainty sputters across Niles’ features. As if he’s spotted something. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Niles.”

“You look tired,” Niles presses on, holding Connor with that impenetrable gaze like a snowy sky.

“I said I’m fine,” Connor says, setting his mouth in a hard line. He’s used to Niles’ interrogations, and even though his heart is beating somewhere in the heights of his throat, he refuses to let anything slip.

“If you’re sure.” Niles gives him a final, curious look. “Half an hour.”

And he’s gone, disappearing silently down the corridor to his own bedroom.

Alone again, the prospect of seeing Hank looms steadily on the horizon, as deep and real as the red glow of the sunrise. Connor showers and dresses slowly, taking his time over every movement, every choice. He selects his outfit carefully—a cream shirt, navy trousers embroidered with a subtle brocade, neat, not overly flashy—and spends an extra few minutes fixing his hair. The half hour passes like molasses, like syrup, not sand, through the hourglass.

But finally. Finally. Connor hears one of the clocks in the house strike the hour, and his stomach lurches, turning a wild spiral in on itself. He feels weightless, the journey downstairs belongs in a dream—it lasts an eternity, and simultaneously, no time at all. He crosses the entrance hall, the high ceilings bathed in a golden light from a blue sky, a pale, beautiful day dawned around them. Connor sees nothing apart from the door to the dining room, the doorknob shining, a beacon set to take him through to some new, uncharted territory. 

When he enters, there are two people seated at the breakfast table. His mother, sitting facing him, gives a tight, cordial smile; she’s wearing a long gown of light blue silk, and her dark skin shines against the fabric. 

Connor feels as if he would know the other figure at the very ends of the earth. In every universe, he would know to lay his hands against those broad shoulders, to press his lips against the nape of the neck beneath the sweep of silver hair. Hank. 

Hank doesn’t turn. Connor wonders if their hearts are beating at the same speed, in sync, a rapid stereo drumbeat.

“Connor,” Amanda says, not getting to her feet. More formalities done away with, then. “Take a seat.”

Connor’s glad she offers him to sit, because his entire lower body—feet, knees, thighs—seems to have dissolved beneath him at Hank’s presence. He hadn’t quite realised the intensity of his own feelings, and yet here they are, like petrol poured onto a slumbering fire. 

“Good morning,” he addresses his mother first, and then, turns at long last to look at Hank. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr President.”

Hank meets his gaze and it’s like an electric current bursts to life between them. Were the world not the way it is, he would fall into Hank’s arms and kiss him with no intention of stopping. 

“And you, Your Highness.” 

Is he imagining the tremble in Hank’s voice? The weakness at the edges of his words as if he longs to say Connor’s name? It’s good to hear his voice again, to roll properly in that deep, earthy rumble.

“We shall wait for your brother before eating. It’s unlike him to be late,” Amanda saying, pouring three cups of coffee from a tall, silver pot. 

Two minutes past the agreed time is late by his mother’s standards. Connor catches Hank’s eye and Hank raises his eyebrows, subtle and unnoticed by Amanda as she busies herself with the milk and sugar. Connor has to hide his smile.

As if summoned by his mother’s disapproval, the door swings open and Niles enters the room. He looks cool and calm, dressed all in black, his still-wet hair brushed slick against his head.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he says, pointing the statement straight towards his mother. And then, turning to Hank and extending a hand, “I’m glad you arrived safely, Mr President.”

“Just about.” Hank grins, taking the proffered handshake. “Thanks for the invitation, Your Majesty.”

Connor remembers their first meeting, all those months ago. _My brother is the king. You can refer to me as Your Highness._ And he’s called him Your Highness, and Connor, and in Connor’s imagination he’s placed every platitude and sweetness under the sun against his skin. How things change. How life is strange.

They’re served breakfast by a skeleton staff—mostly the platters are filled with uncooked things, fruits and cereals—and Amanda explains the reason for the lack of extravagances on Hank’s first morning with them. He waves off the apologies. 

“Nevertheless, I trust your flight was acceptable,” Amanda says, handing Hank a cup of black coffee. 

He adds milk and a heaped teaspoon of sugar, stirring it until it turns a pale, creamy brown. Connor watches. He wants to bring Hank his coffee in the mornings. This perfect domestic image stirs up such a thick, desperate smoke inside him that he has to take a deep breath and tamp it down, lest his expression betray him.

“It was fine, Your Highness,” Hank answers, placing the silverware back into the middle of the table. “Air Force One keeps us comfortable—just delayed leaving DC, that’s all.”

“Of course.” Amanda inclines her head, a hawk’s gaze, sharp as a blade.

Connor knows that look. She knows Hank needs to be kept on side, but she’s still considering the best way to approach this, circling him like prey. If her first meeting with Hank is anything like Connor’s was, she’s probably adjusting to him, his unconventional attitude, his loose, easy laugh. 

“Your plane. I often suggested a private craft to my husband, but he always denied the need for one. And Niles continues to deem them unnecessary.” 

“Ostentatious.” Niles says, short and sharp. “That was the word I used, Mother.”

Hank laughs. “I suppose you could say that.” He doesn’t sound put out, far from it, he sounds amused at Niles’ candidness. 

Still, it’s a strange move on Niles’ part. Is he playing some intricate double bluff, all the aces held tightly to his chest, knowing that Hank will respond well to unguarded honesty? Or has he been more upset by Hank’s past comments about their family than he previously cared to let on? Connor’s not sure, but the look that Amanda throws to her elder son is as cold and black as night. Hank glances between them like he’s watching a tennis match.

Connor sees the opportunity to slice the tension right down the middle. He’s used to tight, volatile exchanges such as this one, and he’s become an excellent bomb defuser where his mother and his brother are concerned. 

“So, Mr President,” Connor interjects, bright and pleasant, “what were you hoping to see on your stay?”

_The inside of my bedroom_ , comes the retort from somewhere in the depths of Connor’s mind, _the column of my neck, head thrown back to taste the stars_.

“I’d like to see some of these famous highlands,” Hank replies. He keeps eye contact with such steady intensity that Connor’s certain he can read his mind. “Nothing like it in Texas, I’m sure of that.”

“I’m sure Niles would be happy to show you around the hills today,” Amanda says, sweet and pointed.

“My apologies, but today’s just impossible.” Niles manages to force something like disappointment into his voice, although Connor knows him well enough to hear how neatly manufactured his tone is. Connor’s certain that he hears something snap in Amanda’s clenched jaw.

“I could take you,” Connor offers. He keeps his words polite and uncertain, although everything in his body is screaming for someone to say yes and proffer him a few hours alone with Hank.

“I suppose that would be acceptable,” Amanda says, and she looks frustrated with everyone assembled. “If you don’t mind, Mr President?”

“Of course not.” Hank smiles, a big, crooked grin, as if some of his American charm might thaw the ice king and the frosty matriarch. “Just happy to stretch my legs after all those hours in the air.”

The rest of breakfast passes amicably enough, toast served in silver racks and more cups of coffee. Niles is perfectly friendly towards Hank, but he offers him none of the flattery that Connor might have expected. Perhaps he’s so used to people respecting him beneath the huge, gilded mantle of his title that he isn’t sure how to react in the face of someone who might offer him a challenge. It’s an interesting study, and honestly, it’s not one that Connor wants to stick around and observe for much longer. 

“It gets dark very early in the winter, Mr President,” Connor says, filling a natural lull in the conversation. “We should leave in the next few hours if you want to walk and get back in the daylight.”

Hank smiles at him, so charmed and gentle that it makes Connor’s heart float its way into his throat. 

“Absolutely, Your Highness.”

The wind makes the mountains ragged, icy gusts that threaten to blow the landscape flat, to take great chunks out of the scenery and cast them into the distant sea. The bluster outside is nothing compared to the tumult of Connor’s nerves—the thought of being alone with Hank for the first time in months, when so much has passed between them. He dresses for the turbulent weather, a padded jacket that buttons right up along his throat, gloves, a hat that presses his dark curls into ringlets against his forehead. 

Hank joins him in the entrance hall just after noon. He’s not dressed nearly as weather-appropriately: a loose overcoat, a pair of dark jeans. Perhaps he won’t be cold when exposed to the biting winds; perhaps he just runs hot. The thought makes Connor shiver somewhere behind his ribcage.

By some stroke of luck, Connor has convinced his mother that they don’t need a security detail to accompany them— _I know these hills better than anyone_ —so it’s just the two of them standing together before the heavy front doors.

“Shall we go?” Connor asks, just about keeping his voice even. Hank nods and something simmers in the meeting of their eyes. 

They walk the same path that Connor took on his first day in the house, when he was alone, and when his thoughts were so full of the promise of Hank that he could do nothing but walk and walk until his breath came in icy gulps. And now Hank is here, striding along beside him, a small smile curling his lips. He doesn’t look at Connor. He stares pointedly ahead, and more than once Connor imagines what it would be like to reach out and take hold of his hand.

They walk across the wide back lawn, beneath the line of bowed trees and onto the hidden, winding path up into the hills. The sun is already creeping its way back down the western side of the sky, a hazy disc in a sky the colour of cornflowers. As they walk, a companionable silence settles between them, broken only by a couple of questions from Hank—what was it like to come here as a child? Did he walk these hills with his brother? His father? Being together like this feels as natural as breathing. Connor feels like maybe he could go on like this forever, head as far as the land would take him and then further, as long as Hank was by his side. 

At the peak of the hill, the crooked bumps of the dragon’s vertebrae, they stop to look down at the house in the dark fold of the valley below them. It’s very quiet up here in the open air, no sound apart from the sharp whistling of the wind in their ears. Even the birds have taken shelter.

“Can anyone see us from the house?” Hank asks.

Connor glances down. He and Niles had tested it out a few times when they were children, running up into the hills and upon their return asking their father: “How long until you couldn’t see us anymore? When did we disappear?” So he knows that from this angle, although they can see the grey roof glistening slightly in the lowering sunlight, they are invisible. They are the only two people in the world. 

“No,” Connor replies, turning to look at Hank. Still, Hank doesn’t meet his gaze. For now, Connor’s grateful for that fact. He studies every solid line of Hank’s handsome features, his broad, heavy brow, the way the wind catches the loose strands of his silver hair and whips them up around his face. The way his eyes seem to be even bluer than the sky. 

“Hank?”

At the sound of his name, Hank turns to face him. Ground-shaking, a meeting of the heavens and the earth.

“Kiss me, Connor. Please.”

Connor doesn’t have to be asked twice. God, he didn’t even really need to be asked once. He surges forward and his mouth finds Hank’s own, Hank’s arms coming to wrap around his waist in one big, sweeping motion. Kissing Hank feels like a boat finding its moorings, it feels like coming home. Connor parts his lips slightly and Hank makes a low, sweet noise into the space, pulling Connor in even closer. The lines of their bodies press together as if they could intertwine. 

Hank’s mouth is warm, and when Connor kisses his chin and his cheeks, they’re warm too. 

“I missed you,” Connor says, speaking the words against Hank’s lips. After months of doing nothing more than reading those words, of feeling them beneath his fingers, saying them with his face only inches from Hank’s own feels like being in a dream. It’s not a dream. It’s the wind-beaten hill of Connor’s childhood and he’s being kissed by a man who makes him feel like the world has stopped spinning on its axis.

“I—” Hank pauses, his gaze very intense, his eyes shining beneath the darkened crease of his brow. For a brief, electric moment, Connor thinks that Hank is going to say something else. Before speaking, he bows his head and kisses him, presses those unspoken words against Connor’s mouth. “I missed you too.”

They stay on the spine of the hill, hidden from view, until the sky turns pink and the white fingernail of the moon appears above them. The wind dies down. Somewhere in the trees behind them, a skylark starts to sing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hope you like chapters with minimal plot development and maximum tender smut

Connor wishes that they could stay on the hidden peak of the hill throughout the night, secret and secluded and wrapped up in one another. Damn the cold, Hank’s hands and Hank’s mouth would be more than enough to keep him warm. But darkness threatens, and Connor knows that they have to unravel themselves and return to their duties nestled in the crater of the valley. 

They arrive back to the house with night trailing in at their heels, the light turning everything a soft navy, like the house has been draped in a dark silk blanket. Several of his mother’s staff are standing at the doorway when they arrive, ready to take their coats and ask them politely to remove their muddied shoes. 

Neither Connor’s mother nor his brother are anywhere to be seen, and when he inquires as to their whereabouts, he is simply told that an early dinner will be served in an hour. It’s a slightly cryptic response, and Connor wonders—a sudden, heart-stopping moment, like jumping into icy water—whether his mother has discovered their secret. Then, with a rapid return to calmness and dry land, he realises that this cannot be the case. If she had seen anything untoward, she would have had Connor pinned straight away beneath one of her steely talons. 

“Is your bedroom to your liking?” Connor asks, as he and Hank climb the grand staircase. Hank’s rooms are at the back of the house, overlooking the wide stretch of lawn that they had crossed only minutes before. From his window, he will be able to see the crest of the hill where they had disappeared into the sky, where they had hidden and stood and kissed until time ran away from them. 

“It’s perfect, thank you,” Hank replies. 

They have to go opposite ways at the top of the stairs, but they stand for a moment, watching each other. Hank’s cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, and his eyes are very clear in the golden light of the hallway.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” Connor says. 

Hank just nods.

Dinner is a quietly grand affair, extravagant in an understated kind of way that Connor’s mother has perfected over the long years. Plates printed with the Stern family crest, crystal glasses so delicate that they have always been kept out of reach, even now, when Niles and Connor are in their thirties. They’re served simple dishes mostly, each one with a Michelin-starred twist that stamps Amanda’s indelible signature onto them. Locally sourced beef fillet, impeccably aged, hand-fished brown trout, gold leaf draped over the fine chocolate desserts. 

Each course is served with a matching wine, a dangerous prospect when Connor’s emotions are already pulled so tight inside him, crackling at the edges since his and Hank’s hilltop kiss. He’s dressed in the clothes that his mother had picked out, a black satin tuxedo that matches Niles’ own in an almost comical reflection. On the walls, there are pictures of them from when they were younger, dressed to match as if they might have been twins. Back then, Niles’ slate grey eyes and Connor’s smaller stature would read as the only real difference.

Conversation stays remarkably benign during their meal: the history of the house and its surrounding land, the Christmas and New Year celebrations in DC and London, Niles’ intention to walk round the loch the following day—if anyone would like to join him. Given his brother’s coldness at breakfast, Connor is taken aback by his initial enthusiasm. It reeks of his mother’s handiwork, honestly, no doubt she had some tough words to share while he and Hank were walking earlier.

Whatever seal she has placed over his brother’s behaviour, it doesn’t last long. Loosened by wine and the time spent together in the warm dining room, talk begins to turn away from placid topics, a boat steering towards dangerous waters.

“I must say, Mr President,” Niles comments, his spoon clinking against the side of the cup as he stirs his post-meal espresso, “we’ve never had a President stay here without a First Lady. You must find the rooms very large for one person.”

It’s an innocuous enough question, but Connor can hear the barbs in Niles’ voice. Their mother must hear it too, because she looks up, her face glazed in polite consternation, her gaze as sharp as a dagger. 

“They’re perfectly comfortable, thank you,” Hank says, and Connor knows him well enough now to see the cooling in his expression. Compared to Niles though, he couldn’t be anymore laid back.

“Have there ever been any unmarried presidents?” Niles asks, his head tilted slightly to one side. It’s posed as a mere curiosity, but Connor knows that this is far from his brother’s bland small talk. This is a push for information; he’s needling for something. Connor can’t work it out, and he watches the dangerous stillness of Niles’ face with a wary anxiety behind his sternum.

“Once,” Hank replies. 

Niles nods, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Only the second president without a First Lady,” he comments. The noise of his cup clinking back into its saucer seems very loud in the shimmering quiet. “How progressive. I hear the American public rather appreciates your modern outlook on things.”

Hank shrugs. Connor wonders if he’s angry.

“I think they realised that a leader’s marital status doesn’t reflect upon his ability to lead a country,” Hank says, pointedly. Niles has said very similar things to the press when questioned about his own unmarried status—Hank’s obviously been doing his research. The fact makes Connor feel proud.

“Quite right.” 

Niles doesn’t smile, but the ice in his expression softens a touch. 

Connor can’t tell if Niles got all that he wanted from his unconventional line of questioning; perhaps he weighed any potential outcome up against the inevitability of their mother’s anger and decided it was more prudent to withdraw. Either way, he drops the matter, and the subject of Hank’s personal life doesn’t get brought up again.

Dinner ends around nine, the tiny, gold-rimmed coffee cups cleared away and the faint buzz of the wine still hanging around at the periphery of Connor’s mind. He wants to ask how Hank is feeling, he wants to lean over the table and press his lips against the place where his starched collar is pressing into his neck. But he keeps quiet and waits for Hank and Amanda to hash out the last of their boring, polite conversation about the complexities of the Japanese ambassador’s hospitality.

His mother seems fonder of Hank than his brother does. Some of it is certainly forced by necessity—she has to get along with him, she would consider it a diplomatic faux pas not to—but some of it seems genuine, taken in by his bold, shiny American charm, that kernel of obvious good that shines through from the very bottom of his heart. Genuine displays of emotion from his mother are so rare that Connor can spot them a mile off. He’s glad for it.

They’re excused as the clock in the corner sounds the half hour, the Westminster Chimes cut neatly in two. 

Amanda stands first, her silks rustling around her, the same pearly green as the underside of a spring leaf.

“Thank you for your company, Mr President.” She holds out her hand, palm down, and Hank takes it. If she expects him to lay his lips against her upturned knuckles, he doesn’t, instead opting for a slightly awkward half-handshake.

“And yours, Your Highness.” 

With a little bow of her head and a tight smile, Amanda leaves, sweeping several members of the waiting staff along with her.

Connor stands in between Hank and Niles, very acutely aware that if his brother were going to say anything scathing to the President, now would be the time to do so. There is the sound of glass being polished in the kitchen, two quiet housemaids sweeping the ashes out of the cooling grate.

But Niles holds his tongue, his back as stiff and straight as if his spine were somehow replaced over dinner by an iron rod.

“Goodnight, Mr President.”

“Thank you for dinner, Your Majesty.”

He shakes Hank’s hand. That’s it. No more interrogative questions, no more baited comments about Hank’s personal life. Connor breathes a silent sigh of relief.

“Goodnight,” Niles says again, and it takes Connor a second to realise that he’s the one being addressed. He does his best to look tired and graciously distracted, rather than lost in the particular quirks of his brother’s personality.

“Goodnight.”

Niles gestures for Connor and Hank to walk ahead of him—disappointingly, Connor had rather hoped that he might be gifted a quiet moment alone with Hank, to run his finger along the square joint of Hank’s thumb—out into the entrance hall and to their separate bedrooms.

Hank turns right at the top of the grand staircase, and Connor and Niles go left, heading to their private quarters at the front of the house. When they reach Connor’s bedroom door, Niles turns to him.

“Mother is going to be furious with me, isn’t she?” 

He doesn’t look worried, as such, but his face is very still. The water beneath a pier, seemingly unmoving, but with riptides under the surface that are powerful enough to drown even the strongest swimmer.

“You were a little…” Connor searches for the right word. “Candid, perhaps.”

“Mhm.” His brother studies the door to the left of Connor’s head, as if that might reveal some of what lies in store for him the next day.

“President Anderson is a good man, Niles,” Connor says, and although it doesn’t look like his brother is listening, he knows that isn’t the case. “He has a lot of good ideas about the world. Ideas that we could learn from, I think. I know Mother is a staunch traditionalist, but—and correct me if I’m wrong—I don’t think you are.”

Connor can tell that his words have made some unseen impact on Niles.

“Goodnight, Connor,” he says, simple and quiet. “See you tomorrow.”

With the bedroom door closed behind him, Connor lets out a sigh, savouring the feeling of being utterly alone for once. No staff, no family, just stillness and the flat, black edge of the loch through his window, glowing in the moonlight.

He knows full well what he should do. He should undress, hang up his suit properly so that it doesn’t crease. He should put his pyjamas on, commit to a proper skincare routine, flip through the evening news on his tablet before he gets into bed. He should sleep for eight hours and awake refreshed in the morning, ready for another day of entirely appropriate, ground-breaking democracy.

He knows that he isn’t going to do any of these things. Hank’s presence at the other end of the house flickers like a beacon. 

The suit jacket gets thrown into a loose pile at the foot of his bed, and his pyjamas stay folded beneath his pillow. He thinks about Hank. He brushes his teeth, flicks through a few unread emails on his phone, and doesn’t reply to any of them. He thinks about Hank—about how his fingers had looked curled around the delicate stem of his champagne glass, how he laughs so big and easy, how his mouth tastes.

Connor gives himself about half an hour’s grace period, more than enough time for his brother to settle in his room, and certainly for his mother to be sleeping. And then he slips out, barefoot on the carpet, a bizarre harkening back to the first time that he had left an unfamiliar bedroom to find solace in Hank’s arms. This time there is no trepidation in his steps, no worry about whether he’s going to find an empty room at the end of his path, or worse, rejection. Certainty and nervous excitement flutter together like two caged birds, pressing up against his heart. 

He’s in the other wing of the house before he knows it, raising his fist to rap on the door to the master suite.

Hank takes a little while to answer—it feels like ten minutes, but Connor reminds himself that it can’t possibly be that long. He’s just impatient. Despite himself, he can’t help but check for anyone walking down the long corridor behind him, although the whole wing is still and quiet. Hank has only bought a small security detail with him and they are stationed in the staff rooms one floor below, and he certainly seems like the sort to dismiss any lingering palace staff in favour of his own space and a modicum of privacy.

When the door before him finally opens, Connor’s head is turned, watching the shadows of trees shift at the end of the corridor.

“Hello.” 

Hank’s voice startles him out of his reverie. 

“Oh, sorry, I was just—” _He doesn’t need to hear the details, Connor._ Connor gives a little, shaky breath. “I mean. Hello.” 

Hank grins. 

He’s wearing a navy bathrobe, piped with gold trim and loosely tied at the waist, and Connor can see the silver hair on his chest peeking out through the narrow ‘V’ of his lapels. His mouth is suddenly very dry. It’s not that he’d forgotten how attractive Hank was, exactly, but rather that he’d been forced to push the fact to the back of his mind whilst at dinner with his mother and brother. Now they’re standing together in the doorway, Connor notices how Hank’s hair is curling loose and damp around his temples, and the fact hits him like a freight train.

“You wanna come in?” Hank asks, taking a step to one side. He’s still smiling, slight and indulgent, like he can perfectly read Connor’s thoughts.

Connor nods. “Yes, please.”

The master suite is virtually unrecognisable from the rooms that Connor knew as a child. Gone is the brown leather sofa that his father loved, where they would sit before the fire for several hours on Christmas morning—at his utmost insistence and Amanda’s dismay—replaced by a high backed Chesterfield in dark blue velvet. The four-poster bed has been redressed and moved so that it overlooks the curved bay window, which is a thoughtful move on his mother’s part. Hank will wake up to the vista of the sun beginning to pinken the sky behind the cragged spine of the mountains. For now though, the curtains are drawn, a heavy dark tartan drape that Connor doesn’t recognise, although no doubt it has some relation to their family’s tenuous Scottish heritage. 

“Do you want a drink?” Hank asks, once the door is shut behind them.

That’s another new addition to the room as well, a polished mahogany drinks cabinet, nestled perfectly into the corner of the room. It probably contains an unnecessarily wide selection of liquors, most of which Hank is unlikely to touch on his unfortunately fleeting visit. 

“Yes,” Connor replies. “Thank you.” There’s a nervous energy thrumming through his throat and chest, which runs in a tremble beneath his voice and makes his shoulders shake. When Hank passes him the crystal tumbler, it does him good to have something to do with his hands.

“I don’t think your brother likes me very much,” Hank says, settling down in the armchair. There’s no second chair for Connor—of course no one had entertained the fact that Hank would have company in here, the most private of places—so he stands, a little awkward, nursing his drink. 

“It’s okay.” Connor shrugs. “I don’t think my brother likes anyone very much.” 

And it’s true. Connor has seen Niles question numerous diplomats in his uniquely cold way, pressing them in a manner that frequently comes off as impolite. It’s one of the things that the press comes down on him the hardest for. At the best, they say impersonal or icy, at the worst, inhuman.

Hank considers Connor’s words, raising his glass to his lips.

“You don’t think he knows something?” Hank asks, after a moment.

Connor shakes his head. He’s known his brother in power and out, and he knows how to read him, despite his many idiosyncrasies. Besides, his brother has never shown much interest in navigating the deeper, more intricate parts of relationships. 

“I’d know about it if he did.”

The words seem to mollify Hank, and Connor notices his shoulders soften a little. “If you’re sure.”

“Hank,” Connor starts, and at the sound of his name, Hank looks towards him. After all, that’s their secret, isn’t it? The simple intimacy of first names when you’ve become so used to cold formalities or an endless maze of intricate titles. Connor likes how Hank’s name feels against his tongue. “Hank. I’m sure.”

There’s something new in Hank’s gaze now, a roughness, magnetic, and Connor feels it pull in his gut. 

“Come and sit over here,” Hank says. There’s a dark edge to his voice as well, a command that Connor has only heard over the phone, and even then it was distant and all too infrequent. Standing before Hank like this—seeing that low fire in his eyes, the spread of his thick thighs beneath the silken material of his bathrobe—makes Connor’s knees feel weak.

He has to gather himself, take a sip of his drink, keep his eyes trained on Hank’s own. He’s determined to give at least some of what he gets, despite the fact that Hank’s very presence is making his own heartbeat sound far too loudly in his head, his breath coming fast and shallow.

The whisky makes Connor’s throat burn. He tries to focus on that sensation as he takes a step closer.

“Here?” Connor asks, perching himself on the arm of the chair. That’s not what Hank means, and they both know it. His coyness isn’t fooling anyone. 

“Oh, if you like.” 

Hank places his glass on the round table beside him. His hands—those big, wide hands, broad knuckles and those square palms—come to lie on the armrests. He’s not touching Connor, although the little finger of his left hand is so close to Connor’s thigh that he can feel that spark which connects them, as thin as thread, as bright as lightning. 

“Would you like to discuss this evening’s dinner?” Connor asks. 

Hank is watching him, a strange expression on his face. Disbelieving, Connor thinks, reverential, as if Connor is something fabled and beautiful, finally made real. He feels humbled by the weight of it. 

“Not really,” Hank replies, and finally, finally, his hands find their way to Connor’s waist. He lets them rest there for a moment, heavy and warm through Connor’s shirt, before reaching up and taking Connor’s glass from him. Set down on the table, it clinks up against Hank’s own. “Come here.”

It doesn’t take much for Connor to slide over into Hank’s lap. A little pull on his waist, twisting so that his knees are on either side of Hank’s thighs. Face to face, the bulk of Hank’s body pressed up against the soft litheness of Connor’s own, they have to wait a second, an inhale, for the world to start spinning again. 

In the flickering light from the fire, Hank’s features are thrown into a magnificent, gold-red relief—a Grecian statue, that severe browline carved from marble, studious and just. Yellow and orange turn in amongst the silver of his beard, and his eyes are fixed on Connor as if he might be the only person in the whole world. 

They don’t speak. Connor dips his head and presses his mouth against Hank’s jaw first, then against his chin, the soft skin over the shadow of his collarbone. Moving his hands up Hank’s arms, he slides them in between the lapels of Hank’s robe, pushing it down and away from his shoulders. 

He’s imagined Hank like this enough times. Since that cramped airplane bathroom, with barely enough room to do anything apart from bite down on his own fist and feel Hank’s weight against his back, he’s imagined what Hank might look like, even more powerful beneath all his fine tailoring. Those wide shoulders, thick upper arms, the softness and strength in his chest and torso.

He hadn’t expected the tattoo.

Soft, blue-black lines spread across Hank’s skin, the detail of the piece faded with time and somewhat obscured beneath Hank’s silver chest hair. A round cameo rests in the centre, a bold outline at Hank’s sternum, flanked by the wide spread of a pair of wings. Not angelic, not delicate, but wild and real, like the jewel-bright shimmer of a raven. Perhaps once they would have looked fit to take flight, before the steady passing of time wore them deep and heavy, down into the skin.

Connor traces the outline of each feather, and then, moving beneath it, the three bold roses that rest in the crease at the top of Hank’s belly. 

“Hank,” Connor mutters, hardly realising it, a little awed gasp that shakes from him. 

Hank isn’t watching Connor’s hands. He’s watching his face, his eyes, the open ‘o’ of his lips. 

“America’s best kept secret.” Hank smiles, and Connor runs the pad of his thumb over Hank’s nipple. A rough noise twists in the back of his throat.

Connor can’t resist the urge to let his lips follow in the path of his hands. He lays kisses over the peaks of those dark wings, follows the gilded edge of the cameo with his tongue; he puts his mouth on the soft hollow at the base of Hank’s breastbone. Beneath his lips, he can feel the beating of Hank’s heart: quick but steady, a wicked drumbeat. 

When he lets his teeth graze over Hank’s nipple—a tease, really, no more than a delicate pressure—Hank shifts where he’s sitting, an uncomfortable, contained movement, as if he’s trying to hold back some more obvious reaction. Would it be so easy to pull more of those rough noises from Hank’s throat, and to unravel those controlled reactions into something loose and wild? To take Hank in hand and make him cry out, make him spill over Connor’s fist, in the cradle of their legs?

Connor’s hands grow still against Hank’s chest, palms flat, his fingers resting at the edge of Hank’s collarbones.

They regard each other for a long moment, hot and soaked in the glow from the fire. 

“Connor,” Hank starts, and Connor kisses his own name out of Hank’s mouth—that languid stretch of his name, those long, aching vowels. Hank runs his teeth over Connor’s lip, pulling his head back. “Let me take you to bed.” 

Connor doesn’t need to reply. 

Hank wraps his hands around the back of Connor’s thighs, shifting forward so that their chests are pressed even closer together. Connor rolls his hips, experimentally, more than anything, and he can feel the hard heat of Hank’s erection pressing into his hip. He whines, a tiny, bitten off sound, barely there at all.

With his hands cupped around Connor’s ass, Hank goes to stand—Connor can feel the tensing of his thighs beneath him, and he’s suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s six foot of limb and a little too much fine food and he’s definitely too heavy to be picked up.

“Hank.” Connor stops him, a hand in the middle of his chest, right over the wing-crested circle of his tattoo. “I don’t think-”

Hank silences him with a kiss, his tongue hot in Connor’s mouth in a way that makes him doubt whether he could get up steadily, even if he wanted to. 

“Connor, baby.” Hank’s face is so close to his own that he can count every laughter line around his eyes. “Let me be romantic.”

Connor nods fervently, turning his face so that he can bury it in the crook of Hank’s neck. Hank smells good—of course he does, of course—rich sandalwood, the sharpness of fresh soap. And beneath it all, there’s a deep, intangible warmth, as if the Texas sun has beaten itself right into his skin. He smells like the sunlight. He smells like the sunlight and he called Connor _baby_. 

_Connor, baby._

Connor presses the words somewhere secret, deep inside him, and holds on tight.

As Hank gets to his feet, a short, grunted exhale is the only indication that Connor weighs anything at all. Connor would swoon, he imagines, were he standing. With his hands clasped at Connor’s legs, Hank takes the few steps from the hearthside to the bed—a regrettably short distance, for Connor knows that he would happily stay here forever. He can hear Hank’s heartbeat, he can feel his pulse where his mouth is pressed against his skin. The low, throbbing buzz of arousal crackles and rolls, lightning in his gut. 

Hank lays him down upon white sheets. When he takes a step back to untie his robe, Connor wonders what good and glorious thing he must have done in a past life to deserve this. 

The firelight flickers against Hank’s skin. He is more than Connor could have imagined, more than he had dared to dream. Connor knows those wide shoulders so well, and he can see now what lies beneath Hank’s crisp, tailored shirts, the sinews of muscle in his upper arms, his forearms. That broad softness across his chest and belly. Connor’s hands twitch, involuntarily, a desperate desire to touch him. 

Hank’s wearing a pair of black boxers, and honestly, Connor doesn’t think he’s ever resented a garment more. 

Hank’s body speaks of a life lived. Connor’s eyes find his tattoo again—that incredible surprise—and there’s another one on his left thigh, a smaller, darker design. He has scars, too, thick, silvery coils and stretches of skin, the kind that Connor doesn’t have. He remembers what he’s read, and what Hank’s told him: his time in the army, a career ending injury. And sure enough, there’s a scar on his stomach to match the story, just below his ribs. A tight, white star.

When his eyes finally find their way back to Hank’s face, Connor doesn’t know how long he’s been staring.

“Are you finished?” Hank asks. His smile is close-lipped and crooked and his eyes are so soft that Connor can hardly stand it.

He shakes his head.

“Can you take the boxers off?” 

Hank’s grin widens, and Connor wants to put his tongue in that gap between his front teeth.

“You first, I think.”

Hank undresses him so slowly and deliberately that it is as if they have all the time in the world. Maybe they do. Maybe Connor has to tell himself that this, here, now, the press of Hank’s lips against his skin, is all that matters. He forgets national obligation and the monarchy and the great terrible press of everything outside, and he allows his focus to draw in, quiet and small. Perhaps this is all the world he needs right now.

Hank unbuttons Connor’s shirt, pushing it open and tracing a slow line from Connor’s chin to the smooth, tender skin just above his navel. It’s been a long time since he’s been touched like this, with tenderness and delicacy. His whole body yearns into it.

With one big hand pressing like a warm brand against Connor’s ribcage, Hank unclasps the front of Connor’s trousers, sliding them down towards his thighs. It’s awkward, and Connor has to kick his feet to allow his trousers to fall to the floor, but when Hank’s mouth finds the skin just beneath Connor’s hipbone, none of that matters. If Hank’s mouth could find every part of him, every freckle, every knot and ache, Connor still doesn’t think that it would be enough.

When Connor is naked, save for his unbuttoned shirt spread out like wings on the sheets behind him, Hank takes a step back as if to survey his handiwork. 

“I found those photographs of you,” he says, his head slightly tilted to one side. “The ones you said the palace had taken down.” 

It takes Connor a moment to work out what Hank is talking about. Slow clarity creeps in through the fog of his desire, through the overwhelming shadow of Hank standing over him, powerful and gentle in equal measure. The image of their second meeting, all those months ago, cups of over-brewed tea steaming on the sunlit table between them—the stretch of the lawn beneath the yellow American sun and the feel of something new taking root in the space between them.

“And?” Connor asks. 

He hasn’t seen the photographs in nearly ten years, they were removed from mainstream publications at the palace’s demand, but there’s not much one can’t find on the internet these days. They were artistic prints, hardly intended to be inflammatory, but far too suggestive for the collected, buttoned up appearance Connor had always been encouraged to portray. Black and white swathes of his skin obscured by the rumpled folds of bedsheets, dark curls falling down over his creased forehead, his face hidden in the crook of his arm. 

“Oh, I liked them a lot,” Hank mutters, his eyebrow cocked. Connor barely has the wherewithal to examine that statement. “And I thought I knew what you looked like—what you would look like, here, like this. But Connor... Connor.”

Hank says his name with such a weight and such a sweet, burning intensity that it makes Connor’s chest ache. He wants to curl away from it, to avoid examining the depth of the emotion that wells up inside him, but he finds himself pinned, a butterfly on a wheel, beneath Hank’s gaze. 

“You’re—” Hank waves his hand loosely. This incredible orator, who stills the thousands with the power of his speeches, lost for words. “You’re beautiful.”

Connor’s heart stutters somewhere in his throat. And then, as Hank slides his thumbs into his waistband and pulls his boxers down, he feels like maybe his heartbeat disappears altogether, lost somewhere behind his lungs. 

Hank is hard, his thick cock curving upwards towards his stomach. Connor knew he was big—he’s relived it enough times, he’s tried to recreate that fullness with the crook of his own fingers—but this is enough to make Connor’s mouth water. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. 

Hank puts his knee on the bed, right up against Connor’s thigh, and covers Connor’s body with his own. 

They melt into each other, mouth to mouth, Hank’s wide hands rucking up underneath the back of Connor’s open shirt. The roughness of his palms makes Connor shiver, a static strand of electricity sparks from the way that he can easily cup Connor’s shoulders and hold him so very close. His mouth is hot, and sweet, and he tastes just like Connor remembered and yet like so much more.

A moan—desperate and throaty—falls between them, and Connor isn’t sure who it belongs to. Either way, it gets bitten back by the press of their mouths, drowned out by the steady, white heat that is burning between them. 

“Here,” Hank says, his face an inch from Connor’s own. He speaks the words against his skin. “Come up here.”

It’s a slightly ungainly repositioning—Hank’s knees knock up against the edge of Connor’s hips, and his dick presses heavy and already slick on Connor’s stomach. Connor whimpers at the sensation. 

Hank settles himself up against the headrest, with his legs spread and knees slightly bent. Kneeling between his feet, Connor watches as he strokes himself, slow and lazy, a stiffening in his jaw the only indication that he’s touching himself at all. 

“You wanna sit in my lap again?” Hank asks, his expression suddenly so bright and coy that Connor can’t help but laugh. 

Imagine if they could have this every day. Imagine if he could learn all of Hank’s quirks, all of his desires, all of the places on his body that make him groan, or cry out. The thought makes Connor’s chest hurt.

“Like this,” Hank reaches out for Connor again, hands guiding him until he’s resting on top of his thighs. “Let me look at you.”

One hand braced against the headboard behind them, and one at Hank’s shoulder, Connor settles himself into Hank’s lap. Like this, Hank is able to wrap his hand around both of them, and the pressure of Hank’s rough palm from one side and the smooth, velvet slide of his dick on the other is almost enough to send Connor right over the edge.

“There’s lube and condoms in my bag, if you wanna—” Hank starts, but Connor shakes his head. The idea of being anywhere else other than right here, his legs straddling Hank’s thick waist, his hand gripping bruises into Hank’s bare shoulder, is absolutely unthinkable. 

“No,” Connor mutters, and his voice comes out as a low, desperate groan. “No, this is good.” Hank strokes them both again, a little faster and firmer this time, and it’s like wildfire begins to roll in Connor’s gut. His hips cant upwards, seeking more.

“Well, okay then,” Hank says, and beneath the playful flirtation in his voice, Connor can hear something rough, dark desire, heavy and burning. “Sounds good to me, baby.”

There it is again, irresistible and so dangerous that it makes Connor’s head roll back, loose, exposing the fine line of his neck. 

“You like that?” 

Hank’s other hand squeezes Connor’s thigh, finds his waist, spreads out flat on the softness of his stomach. Beneath Hank’s hands, beneath his steady gaze and the sweetness of his words, Connor feels beautiful.

“Yes,” Connor gasps, a vehement admission, as if he could do anything but agree. Hank grins, his hand quickening.

“Good to know.” 

And Connor can’t do anything else apart from lean in to kiss him, shoulders hunched, mouth eager. They settle into a rhythm, Connor’s thighs trembling, his breath coming in short, hard gasps, desire squeezing white hot in all the places where Hank has touched him. Hank seems more collected, but his eyes keep fluttering closed, his chest glistening in the flickering light from the fire. 

Connor has never been a superstitious man, and any religious or spiritual belief he has is mostly performative, born out of necessity in his public role. But here, with Hank’s hand wrapped around the both of them, stuttering in its once sure movements, Connor throws up some flighty, delighted thanks. For all of it.

“Hank,” Connor gasps, more to feel the shape of Hank’s name in his mouth than anything else. He wants to say something profound, wants to utter some understanding about how Hank makes him feel, far headier and stronger than the desire curling in his belly, driving him towards release. But his words don’t come. They stagger and falter, and with a groan, Connor lets his head fall against Hank’s shoulder. 

He thinks Hank speaks back to him, but he can’t make out the words. Instead, three short strokes of Hank’s hand and Connor is coming, almost blindsided, seized by the searing, white light that blazes down his spine. He cries out against Hank’s skin, toes curling, spilling over Hank’s fingers and into the soft, grey hair on his stomach. 

Hank laughs—a gasped, half-amazed sound—as Connor melts into him, loose and pliant as the buzz of the afterglow seeps over him. He’s too sensitive now, and each touch of Hank’s fingers sends loose sparks shaking through him, dusting and dancing over his skin.

“Here, let me.” 

Connor takes Hank’s hands and places them on his thighs, a grounding grip. He wraps his own hand around Hank’s cock, savouring how his fingers barely touch around his girth, imagining how he might taste against Connor’s tongue. That’s for another time, though. Hank’s hands are twitching against Connor’s legs, and he can tell from Hank’s face, a tightness between his eyebrows, a slackness to his mouth, that he’s not far from the edge himself.

Connor tries to imitate the grip of Hank’s own hand—although he knows his slender fingers are hardly any match—firm, with a twisting upstroke that makes Hank bite down on his lip. It doesn’t take long before he can’t hold back his moans any longer, and Connor can feel his desire and desperation shaking up through him in great waves.

“Oh, fuck—Connor—” 

Hank comes around the gasped sound of Connor’s name, shoulders arching away from the headrest so that Connor can press their mouths together. Their bodies move against each other, the final thrills of Hank’s pleasure rocking and rolling over the pair of them, his moans enough to make Connor’s dick twitch in half-hearted interest again.

With a final exhale against Hank’s shoulder, Connor climbs off Hank’s lap, coming to rest against his side. Hank wraps an arm around him, his fingers running absent, delicate patterns along his ribcage. Something loaded rests in the silence between them, settling in the space that has been left behind by the flames of their desire. Connor can’t quite put his finger on what it is. It’s not regret—there’s nowhere else in the world he would rather be than in Hank’s arms—it’s not denial of the way he feels for Hank, blooming in his chest all over again, like a new sunrise. It’s a sense of injustice, he thinks, that they should have to sneak moments like this in the dead of night, that they shouldn’t be able to speak or act publicly about this miraculous treasure that they have unearthed.

He wonders if Hank is turning the same thoughts over in his mind, over and over, the tenderness and the beauty, the danger.

“You can’t stay tonight, can you?” Hank asks.

It’s not what Connor had expected, and there’s something so quiet and sad in Hank’s voice that Connor has to wait a moment before replying.

“No,” Connor answers, with a shake of his head. “Mother will have arranged wake up calls, and if anyone finds me here and not in my own room, then…” 

He doesn’t need to continue. They can both create numerous ends to that sentence.

“Thought not.” Hank’s arm tightens at his back. “Stay a little while though.”

It would be so easy to spend the night like this, with Hank’s big arm wrapped around him, his cheek pressed against his chest. Their hearts beating in steady tandem. He must fall into a half-doze, because suddenly Hank is stroking his hair and following the line of his cheekbone with his index finger. 

“I should go back to my room,” Connor mutters sleepily. He makes no move whatsoever to do so.

“Mhm. Maybe.”

A glance at the clock on Hank’s bedside table tells Connor that it is past midnight, the turn of a new day. He moves slowly, untangling himself from Hank and looking around on the floor for his discarded underwear and trousers. He does up the buttons on his shirt, savours the way his fingers brush up against all the places that Hank has touched him, all the unseen marks left by Hank’s mouth.

Hank kisses him goodbye up against the closed door, bathrobe half tied up and the memory of them still painted across his stomach. Connor lets Hank hold him close, a still beat, and he tries to hold onto that feeling—safety, the bough of Hank’s arms—even as he closes the door behind him and has to step out into the empty corridor. 

He’s not sure if he sleeps well. He dreams fitfully and vividly, and he feels Hank’s hands, his roughness, his bridled strength.

Hank stays for two more days. That’s what had been arranged, and no matter how much Connor wills the time to spread itself thinner and to last longer, the hours run like water through his fingers. They spend the days polishing the veneer of their relationship—they accompany Niles and Amanda on a drive out to the foggy ruins of an old castle, and Connor wishes that he could take Hank’s hand. They have rich dinners and sweet wines, and make polite conversation about diplomacy and democracy over the crumbs of their dessert.

And under the cover of night, Connor slips out of his bedroom and finds Hank. They learn each other's bodies, minute by minute. Connor tastes Hank on his tongue, feels his hands pull on his hair as he comes down his throat; he rides him at a pace that is almost painfully slow, drawing out each moment as long as he can bear.

When Hank leaves—a grey morning, so overcast it could almost be night—Connor feels as if a piece of his heart has taken flight out over the Atlantic.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a trip for the Stern brothers; a secret reunion.

In London, the first months of the year seem very long, drawn-out and heavy. They arrive back in the city just as the Christmas decorations are being pulled down from the shops, replaced by posters announcing the new year sales, predicting all manner of great changes in the months to come. From the window of his car, Connor watches the streets flicker past, and he can’t help the sharpness that rises in the back of his throat. 

Over the next few weeks, the press seems to cover every single angle of President Anderson’s visit to the Stern’s highland home. Anything from menu details—surprisingly accurate—to speculations about Christmas gifts exchanged—absolutely inaccurate—to a series of photos showing their convoy of cars traversing the grey-green hillside. Some eagle-eyed photographers managed to snap a few pictures of Hank boarding his plane, and the image of him smiling, looking well-rested and devastatingly blue-eyed, giving a wave to the little crowd, makes Connor’s heart ache.

_Modernising Monarchy_ , one headline reads. _The highlands may be rocky, but President Anderson’s diplomatic relationships certainly aren’t…_

Connor reads each article carefully. He tells himself that he’s doing his due diligence, making sure that they haven’t been reckless, although really he’s remembering each detail of Hank’s stay. All the big, important moments that make his heart sing, right down to the tiny, hidden seconds, filed away like snapshots in the most important photo album. 

The night after they ate trout and seared beef, Hank pulled Connor over into his lap and let him run his fingers over the tattooed skin of his chest. The day when Hank definitely didn’t gift Amanda a solid gold cameo in the shape of an American dollar coin, Hank’s foot brushed up against Connor’s ankle beneath the dinner table. 

At the end of January, Niles holds a fundraising event for young influencers. It’s organised at Amanda’s insistence, although Connor suspects that her team of publicists are the driving force behind it, wanting to ride on the coattails of their successful new year ventures. The palace gets decked out in white and gold, sustainably sourced greenery replacing their mother’s silk flower arrangements, and two hundred tech-savvy twenty-somethings descend for an evening of speeches and selfies. At the end of the night, Niles is the fourth most trending public figure in the world. 

February brings snow, although on this side of Christmas, the flurries are sludgy and inconvenient, rather than magical and charming. Connor sends Hank a picture of his back garden, pasted with a few inches of grey-white, and Hank responds with an image of a flickering fire and his trademark glass of whisky, a code between them now. _Last night_ , says the attached message, _wish you could have been there._

Although Valentine’s Day is not a holiday that is officially observed by the Royal family, the tabloids print their usual speculations about Niles and Connor—rich, handsome and eligible, the fact that they both remain unattached seems incomprehensible. On the morning of the fourteenth, Connor and Niles discuss a double page spread theorising that the king is courting one of the Duke of Hereford’s daughters.

“She’s our cousin,” Niles says. The quirk of his eyebrow betrays the fact that he finds the whole thing completely hilarious.

“Technically,” Connor replies, pouring more black tea into his brother’s cup. “Stranger things have happened in the monarchy.”

“I suppose so.” Niles raises the drink to his lips. “Still, I thought we were supposed to be modernising.”

All in all, the beginning of the year starts off unremarkably. Public opinion of their family is slightly higher than it was at the last check, and the Prime Minister continues to focus his attention towards other, more pressing initiatives. Connor texts Hank almost every day and steals as many phone calls as he can. He watches an online feature predicting the changes that Hank will start to implement now he’s in the second year of his presidency, and Connor thinks mostly about how big Hank’s hands are, and how his words have ghosted, beautiful, against the curve of Connor’s neck. 

He misses him desperately. He holds his breath against the weight of his feelings and does his best to press on, trying not to think about it too hard.

In March, the year grows suddenly bright and wild with promise. 

Without much of a warning, his mother’s private secretary forwards him a sudden slew of documents and non-disclosure agreements. Subject line: _URGENT: White House engagement._ Connor receives the emails in the early morning while he’s still in bed, and wades through them with his heart in his mouth. 

There, buried in the midst of officially watermarked paperwork, beside the endless blinking boxes for him to sign, is an invitation from the White House. 

Connor’s glad that he reads the summons when he’s alone, because the triumphant, jubilant noise that he makes is definitely unfitting of a prince. He closes the official documents, the itineraries and flight plans, and returns to the only thing that really matters, the letter printed with Hank’s signature at the bottom. 

_To thank you for your hospitality at the beginning of this year and following the several successful stateside visits by His Royal Highness Prince Connor last year, I extend an invitation to His Majesty King Niles, Her Royal Highness Amanda the Queen Mother and His Royal Highness Prince Connor for a tour of the United States in April._

_We would be delighted to host you in any of our cities. There are many representatives and senators, both present and prospective, who are eager to meet you._

In the end, Amanda declines her part of the invitation, insisting that Niles and Connor go without her. She cites the relatively short notice of the President’s invitation and engagements that have already been made, but Connor expects there is some other reason behind it. Perhaps she is finally loosening her grip on the reins and allowing the two of them to strike out on their own. Perhaps she has finally begun to see that the future of their family truly rests in Niles’ hands, and to a lesser extent, Connor’s, rather than her own. The idea is a little disconcerting.

They carve out just over two weeks, a neat slot in the middle of April. What could have easily been a fleeting visit—a professional dinner with President Anderson and a few of his delegates—seems to snowball very quickly into something much bigger than that. A few stops in a few cities turns into a countrywide tour, a trip from shore to shore employing all kinds of transportation, and meeting everyone from congressmen to businessmen to citizens in their small town crowds. Although Amanda isn’t going, she organises most of the trip—as is her usual, thorough way. Apparently the President’s recent highlands trip has stirred up some new American interest in the Stern family, and there are plenty of cities where their presence has been requested. Morbid curiosity or vested interest, Connor isn’t sure.

Normally, Connor would be tired just at the very thought of such a long engagement. The day to day of his usual public appearances is one thing, but something about moving from city to unfamiliar city to do it time and again is enough to give him a pounding headache. 

As they take off from Heathrow—commandeering the entirety of the first class section for the twelve hour flight—he takes the opportunity to study their itinerary once again. 

Their time with Hank shines beneath his fingers. It’s a star-like beacon in the middle of a dark sea. 

_Houston, Texas. Two nights. One afternoon/evening at the Anderson ranch._

Niles is seated across the cabin from him, running over the details of their trip with his head of security. It must be the fifteenth time he’s heard the schedule, and although he frames the questions with an air of professionalism and detachment, Connor can tell that his brother is nervous. 

During his time as king, Niles has spent much of his time holed up in the palace, signing government bills and keeping the Prime Minister at arm's length, leaving Connor and Amanda to smile and wave for the cameras. He isn’t used to the demand—both mental and physical—of endless public engagements, and Connor thinks of getting out of his seat and going to lay a hand on Niles’ shoulder.

In the end, he turns away. He watches the golden grid of city lights disappear behind a layer of cloud and he tries not to think about how Niles would feel if he knew the real reason for Connor’s enthusiasm towards this trip. He sleeps on and off, and he pictures Hank waiting for him, somewhere across the dark waves.

They arrive in Los Angeles International beneath the cover of some endless night, which has latched onto their wings and followed them across the Atlantic. Despite the late hour—Connor adjusts his watch to read just ten minutes before midnight—there’s a small crowd gathered in arrivals, some of them waving flags, all of them conspicuously snapping pictures on their camera phones. Connor tries his best to smile warmly through the cloying exhaustion that follows long-distance travel, shaking a few hands, waving cordially. Someone hands Niles a flag printed with the stars and stripes, and he looks at it like they’ve just handed him a box of bees. 

They step out of the terminal to find two sleek, dark cars waiting for them. The air is much closer here than in London, and even the night breeze carries some hint of sunshine warmth from the nearby ocean. 

Niles takes one car and Connor the other, with North in the front passenger seat. Seemingly unaffected by any kind of jet lag, she dictates to the driver the quickest way to their hotel in the notorious Los Angeles traffic, taking into account any roadworks and diversions. While Connor was sleeping the miles away, she must have been studying maps and adjusting their itinerary, and he can’t help the sweep of stunned affection that swells towards her. 

The famous LAX signage sweeps past the window and the blue lights of the airport roll away behind them. 

They stay in Los Angeles for a few days, more for press commitments than diplomatic ones—letting the country know that they are here, that they are professional and modern and well-versed politically. They host a two-hour press conference in their hotel, which allows every paper and publication in the vicinity to ask questions of them, some of them interesting and thought-provoking, others utterly banal. A reporter from one of the local gossip magazines asks Niles if the rumours about him and the Lady Hereford are true, and Connor can practically hear his brother’s eyes roll into the back of his skull. 

Although North informs them of various invitations from the talk shows filmed in and around the city, Niles turns each one down. Connor’s somewhat disappointed, although he tries not to show it. Part of him thinks it would be an interesting experience, and another part of him likes the idea of Hank—somewhere east of him—turning on the television of an evening and seeing Connor’s face, well-lit, made-up, grinning like a starlet.

“Why not?” Connor asks, as Niles politely rejects their fourth invite.

“We’re not a pair of C-list celebrities promoting our new film.” Niles turns a page of the copy of Middlemarch that he has, inexplicably, brought with him.

Connor nods, as if he understands.

“So are we A-list celebrities?” he asks. “What are we supposed to do?”

“The Royals don’t go on any list, Connor,” Niles says, glancing up. “We’re far beyond that.”

With their arrival heralded and online articles published, they leave the west coast behind and set out for the rocky, desert states in the interior of the country. In place of another airplane cabin, they have hired—or perhaps been gifted, Connor is never sure how these things work—a shiny white motorhome, as luxurious inside as any fine hotel room that Connor has stayed in. 

On their way out of the city, their convoy gridlocked once again in the angry LA traffic, North explains to them the next step of their journey. They’re seated around the round, polished table, in plush seats that are heavily bolted to the floor, and Connor looks through the window at the big white villas on the green hillside opposite.

“We had invitations from all over,” she says, flicking through some documents on her tablet. “Phoenix. Salt Lake City.” She passes over a few more. “Kansas City. We decided on Las Vegas in the end.”

“Why?”

This comes from Niles, poring over the same documents on a separate device. 

North gives a small shrug. She and Niles have never got on, ever since Connor insisted, over a decade ago now, that North be employed as his personal head of security. She’s utterly efficient and entirely ruthless, and she’s told Niles more than once—in her own, cuttingly polite way, of course—what he should do with his ice king persona and often tactless way of making conversation. Sometimes Connor wonders whether they’re so similar that, in different circumstances, they might actually get along.

“It made the most sense logistically,” North explains. “If we’re heading down to Houston as the next stop. Las Vegas to Houston is still twenty hours on the road, we didn’t want to extend it any longer if we didn’t have to.”

Niles nods, apparently satisfied with this answer.

“Also,” North continues, sliding the tablet over the table towards Connor. The image on the screen shows a luxurious hotel room, rich leather sofas, a wide bay window and a cloudless, pink-blue sunset glowing behind black desert crags. She gives him a subtle smile. “They wanted an opportunity to show you _America_. What’s more American than Vegas?”

Niles doesn’t look convinced at this further explanation, but he doesn’t say anything. Bright lights and the endless chiming of slot machines do not really seem like the kind of scene where Niles will be comfortable, but who knows? Perhaps his brother will surprise him. 

They are on the road for most of the afternoon, the green residential vistas of Los Angeles dissolving into scrubby green roadside, a few empty parks and dry-looking baseball fields. The evening pulls the huge expanse of the desert around them, a bleak landscape that rolls by the window in a single, hypnotic stretch. Connor presses his head against the glass like a child and watches as the brown ground begins to soak up the sunset—pink first, then purple, then a dark, hazy blue.

Nightfall seems vast; with no buildings and the wide, black spread of the verge on either side of the road, their rumbling cavalcade could be the only thing left in the world. Everything else might as well have been swallowed by the immensity of the darkness. 

The highway before them stretches on, an illuminated thread in the desert gloom. With the flow of the landscape swallowed up into the unlit verge, he lets his eyes slip closed; he thinks about Hank and how each mile, each metre, is drawing them closer together. 

“Look.”

Connor must have dozed off with his head pressed against the humming glass, because all of a sudden Niles is at his side, one of his hands on his shoulder. With the other, he is pointing through the windscreen at the road ahead of them. 

The desert all around is still flat and black, but on the horizon, a brightness has begun to bloom, a yellow glow like a midnight sunrise. The light throws itself up against the night sky until the moon and stars have all but disappeared beneath the hum of the distant city.

As they continue their approach, the rocky landscape starts to light up too. Low buildings at first, staining the ground gold, and then the white blocks of hotels and casinos, a thousand square windows lit up in their broad facades. It doesn’t take long before the buildings on either side of them grow dense, the traffic too, loud and bright and a far cry from the seemingly endless void of the desert that had carried them here.

This is the Las Vegas that Connor had expected, not the dust and the mountains, but the stream of lights and the sudden press of people who watch their vehicle pass as if it is some foreign imposition. They pass blinding screens that make Connor’s eyes hurt, even through the tinted windows; plate glass buildings that reflect every flickering light, throwing it back tenfold into the night’s sky. There’s the Statue of Liberty, small and glossy in her Vegas fittings; the pavements are thick with tourists and lined with tall palm trees.

There’s so much to look at that Connor suspects they could drive the same route five times over and he would still see something new.

They are staying in the Bellagio—Presidential suite, North tells them, and Connor can’t help the flutter in his chest—and as they make their final turn, Connor watches the spray from its fountains turn somersaults in the air. 

Connor knows luxury. He’s known it since he was a boy, since before he knew what the word even meant. But he’s known his family’s luxury, of tight gold and intricate details, priceless heirlooms locked away in decorated glass cabinets. It is a richness of ceremony and circumstance, all of it drawn down as dense and ornate as possible. 

When they enter the foyer of the Bellagio hotel, Connor can’t help but feel like he’s breaching some unknown territory. The marble floor is patterned with tiles of numerous colours and designs, as if they had allowed one architect to lay the perimeter of the room and a completely different one to set the centre. Above them, the ceiling is hung with a display of glass flowers, huge and surely heavy, although the light shining through them in blue and green and red makes them look as light as petals in the breeze. When Connor tilts his head back to look up at them, it’s like being on the inside of a kaleidoscope. North lays two fingers just above his elbow, a discreet reminder that they have more important things to do. 

Niles and Connor are escorted to the Presidential suite, and their bags are already waiting for them when they arrive. It’s a rare blessing that they have nothing to do on their first night in a new city. Had their mother been here, Connor knows that they would be changed and straight back out the door again, no doubt to rub shoulders with some visiting ambassadors over a couple of strong martinis.

As it stands, once North gives them a final debriefing and shuts the door to the suite behind her, that’s it. The night closes in on them and their hotel room that is far too big for two. 

After a day on the road and the bright lights and bustle of the city, Connor is grateful for the moment of quiet. He unpacks a few of the things that he will need into the smaller of the two bedrooms, a few pressed shirts, a suit; he moves a small bag of toiletries to the side of one of the two sinks. A pair, matching mirrors for a couple to ready themselves in. 

He wonders if Hank has stayed in this suite before. What did he do? Did he hold an audience in the neat little conference room, or perhaps a dinner party at the glass table overlooking the twinkling blanket of Vegas lights? Did he make drinks at the bar and engage his guests in tough political discussion?

Did he sleep in the larger of the two bedrooms, or the smaller? Was he alone?

In danger of letting his thoughts run away from him long before it’s appropriate, Connor abandons the rest of his bags and steps out into the main area, closing the bedroom door behind him. He half-expects to see Niles in deep discussion with one of his security team, an extra debrief to follow North’s, or else to receive a text message from him explaining that he’s gone to bed—alongside a detailed breakdown of their itinerary for the following day. 

He finds neither of these things. Instead, the lights in the main room have been switched off and one of the windows is rolled up, letting the warm desert air and the sounds of the Strip seep into the thick, air conditioned quiet. 

Niles is sitting in one of the armchairs by the window, looking out over the burning grid of city lights, so bright that it has extinguished every star in the sky. A few streets over, a great pillar of white light shoots up into the darkness, a stationary searchlight, burning blue around the edges. 

“Niles?” Connor speaks his brother’s name into the half-dark. 

If Niles is surprised by Connor’s sudden presence, he doesn’t show it. He turns slowly, one side of his face illuminated—blue, then red, then back to blue again. 

“I thought you’d gone to bed,” Niles says. He’s lost weight over the past few months. Connor can see it in the dark, tired hollows around his eyes, thrown into even harsher relief by the glare of the Vegas lights. 

“Not yet,” Connor replies, turning on one of the lights behind the bar. There’s a selection of liquors, far more than either of them will touch, and Connor is reminded of Hank’s well-stocked cabinet in his highland bedroom. He tries not to think about it too hard. “Do you want a drink?”

It’s hard to tell in the gloom, but he thinks Niles nods. He knows that it would be easy to ring for room service, or even for a bartender who would come up and mix their drinks for them in the privacy of their own suite, but both seem unnecessary and unwanted. He takes his time mixing them both generous gin and tonics. Niles stares out over the city, the suburbs, and out into the desert beyond.

Connor sits down beside his brother and gives him one of the glasses.

“Here.”

Niles is wearing the same clothes he’d been travelling in, pressed jeans and a black jumper, anonymous and professional. He’s tucked one bare foot underneath him, the other resting on the floor. His ankles are very pale.

“It’s tiring.” 

When Niles speaks, he’s not looking at Connor. 

“What is?” Connor asks, tentative. He rarely hears his brother talk about anything so trivial and unhelpful as his _feelings_ , and he wonders if he’s going to be privy to some great confession about the uniqueness of their situation. 

“All of this.” Niles gestures out at the city before them. “All these lights, all these people. I don’t know how they do it.” 

It’s not what Connor had expected and he has no more to give as a reply than a noncommittal shrug. Silence falls, a sheet of glass balanced precariously between them, waiting for just one word to tip it.

Somewhere below, amongst the gush and swell of the Bellagio fountains, a tinny voice announces a proud “Viva Las Vegas!” 

Niles closes his eyes, head tilted back—exhausted, exasperated. 

“Fucking hell.” 

Connor rarely hears his brother curse, either. Certainly there’s some deeper concern within him than just the bright lights of Las Vegas, the energy of bachelorette parties and the persistence of gambling tourists. He’s also certain that Niles won’t tell him anything.

As if he can hear Connor’s thoughts and questions brewing on the tip of his tongue, Niles gets suddenly to his feet. He leaves his glass half drunk, sweating beads of condensation onto the table below.

“I’m going to bed.”

“Oh, okay,” Connor says, trying not to sound too put out. “‘Night.”

“First appointment is at—”

“Ten o’ clock, Grand Patio,” Connor interrupts, with the very words that North had spoken to them only an hour ago. He’s not annoyed, not really, he knows Niles’ perfectionist tendencies better than most. Better than anyone, he’d wager. “I was at the briefing too.”

“Yes.” Niles gives him a small smile, barely visible with his back to the windows. “See you tomorrow.”

Niles crosses behind the seating area and after a moment Connor hears the door to his bedroom click shut. He sits by himself for a while, watching the cars move on the street below, drinking the rest of his gin and tonic, and then the rest of Niles’.

When he is certain that his brother is in bed, he heads to his own room and retrieves the handset that Hank had sent him all those months ago, hidden discreetly in one of the inside pockets of his suitcase. He snaps a picture of the view, a grid of blistering whites and blues, with the desert like a black band of water in the distance. After attaching a brief message, he sends the picture to Hank, and then sets about getting himself ready for bed too.

Just before he falls asleep, eyes half-closed in the dark, he checks the phone once more. No message from Hank—it’s gone midnight on the west coast, after all—just his own words in blue and white.

(22:32) Three days.

Connor misses Hank so desperately that it hurts. Sliding the phone into the drawer of the bedside table, he tries not to think too hard about the fact that when they do see each other again, it will be another diplomatic engagement; their moments together will likely be clandestine and fleeting. The worry of it tries to settle, tar-like, around his heart. He refuses to let it. Instead, he thinks of Hank’s eyes—incredible, that seastorm blue—his hands, the soft skin between his collarbones.

Their two days in Vegas pass mercifully quickly, a rush of meetings and drinks and meals in fancy restaurants. Representatives from all over the country have travelled to see them, and Connor has a hard time remembering names in the whirlwind of faces and conversations that they are presented with. They talk to congressmen from Montana, the governor of Colorado, the mayor of Las Vegas, a handsome woman in a bright red suit, who tells them how very pleased she is that they decided to visit her city. 

On their final evening, they’re hosted in a no-stakes blackjack game—no money involved, a learning opportunity for Niles and Connor, a last chance to experience Vegas as much as they are allowed. There are a couple of photographers standing by, ready to record evidence of just how modern and relatable the Royals can be. Connor’s not sure that this is the best way to do that, but he doesn’t say anything.

Connor knows the basic rules of blackjack and fumbles through a few successful hands, takes a few losses, pushing his blank chips across the table with a genial smile. Niles, on the other hand, watches the dealer with an ice cold focus. His pale eyes flick between the card shoe and the other players, and there’s a firm set to his jaw that Connor knows well. Ten hands in, and Niles has a small pile of white chips in front of him. By the end of the game, he’s gained a considerable victory over anyone else at the table.

“You played this before?” their host asks, watching him with an expression of barely contained surprise. 

“Beginner’s luck,” Niles says. 

Everyone laughs, there’s even a loose round of applause from one of the guests at the table—no harm done, no dollars surrendered. Connor is reminded that despite how well he thinks he knows his brother, Niles will continue to reveal new facets to himself, and that there are depths in everyone that cannot possibly be known.

It is before dawn the next day when Las Vegas slips away from them and disappears behind the horizon. The road to Texas stretches on before them, an interminable twenty hours, and Connor does his best to settle back into his chair and keep himself from tapping a hole in the armrest with his restless fingers. 

Behind the windows, the landscape flashes by in those same unlit expanses of desert that they had encountered on their way into Nevada, dull with purplish scrub and sad-looking cacti. Occasional pockets of green pop up here and there, lush oases, blue water and the curl of trees reaching up into the sky. They make regular rest stops, mostly so that they can buy coffees and strange American sweets in bright packets, and stretch their legs beneath the hard noontime sun. 

They reach the Texas border in the early evening, and Connor’s heart sinks when North tells him that they still have ten hours on the road. The scale of the United States is like nothing he has ever known before, it makes their very presence seem small and insignificant in the grandest scheme of things. 

As the evening slips into a new swathe of inky highway blackness, Connor climbs into one of the motorhome bunks and tries to get some sleep. In the dark, he imagines Hank beside him, the warmth of his body on the narrow mattress. He would happily spend twenty, thirty, a hundred hours on the road with Hank beside him, precious hours that otherwise seem wasted. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, tight, and lets the steady hum of the tyres on the road send him into an unsettled sleep.

By the time they arrive in Houston, they have been on the road for almost twenty-four hours. It’s a different kind of tiredness than that which comes from travelling in airplane cabins; Connor feels wound tight, restless, like his heart is beating too fast a rhythm. Perhaps it has something to do with their day of driving. Perhaps it has something to do with the prospect of seeing Hank properly, in the flesh, for the first time in four months. He swallows down on his quickening breath and listens as North explains the next step of their journey. 

They decamp into the humid Houston morning. They have a few hours’ respite before cars arrive to take Niles, Connor and a few select members of their security team to the Anderson ranch. There they will have a day with the President and his family, along with select representatives from the Texas delegation. 

A day. That’s all. Frustration closes in his chest, a sudden, hard snap of emotion. 

North must see the flickering change in his expression, because once she’s finished her briefing, she pulls him over to one side. 

“You okay?” she asks, her tone quiet and confidential, her hand against his upper arm.

“I’m fine,” Connor lies, running a hand over his face. “Just tired.”

“I get it,” she replies, with a curt nod. “Get a bit more sleep if you can. Cars arrive in three hours.”

The Anderson ranch is about half an hour out of the city, a beautiful, low slung building sitting in ten acres of fenced off land. On the drive, Niles explains—because of course he’s done his research—how the house used to be military property, belonging to the President’s father, since passed on and converted into a place for the Andersons to entertain visiting dignitaries, bright and open and built for comfort. Connor is only half-listening. His mind is almost entirely consumed by the effort of keeping his expression nonchalant, beating down the hot thrum of nervous excitement that courses through his veins. 

As they approach the building, he can see a small crowd of people congregated on the white veranda. 

In amongst them, head and shoulders above most, he can see the President. His silver hair catches the sunlight, and Connor’s heart jumps up into his mouth.

Hank comes down the front steps to greet them, and it takes all of Connor’s bodily control to keep himself from running into his arms. He looks good, Connor thinks, with an involuntary stab of heat in his gut—the picture of hospitality in a pair of grey slacks and a short sleeved button up. Although he’s only been in Texas for one more day than them, his strong forearms have already begun to brown in the fierce sun. 

He turns to Niles first, always the professional, offering his hand.

“Your Majesty,” he says, and god, Connor had almost forgotten the low bass shudder of his voice, “thank you so much for joining us.”

And then, after what seems like hours—because it has been hours, it’s been weeks, _months_ —he finally turns to face Connor.

“Your Highness.” 

They shake hands, exchange polite smiles. The touch is electric, and unseen sparks flicker between them. 

“It’s nice to see you again.” 

Connor had almost forgotten the intensity of Hank’s gaze, too, and how delightful it is to be pinned again beneath that sharp blue. Hank’s palm is rough, and Connor definitely doesn’t think about how much he would like to press his fingers against his mouth.

“Let me introduce you.”

On the front porch, a small, eager group is waiting to meet Niles and Connor, each one with a drink in hand and an easy smile. Connor composes himself, pushes the memory of Hank’s touch to the back of his mind and slides on his finest mask—calmness and pleasantries and what a pleasure it is to meet all of them.

The group is mostly composed of Democratic delegates from Texas, along with governors and mayors from the surrounding states and cities. But amongst these officials, who are sweating in their suit jackets in the close air, sit a number of Hank’s friends and family. There are ex-military men, long since retired or moved into other jobs, an uncle seated on the porch swing talking about baseball with a young woman who Connor vaguely recognises as a sports reporter. 

It’s an eclectic mix, and there’s something about the closeness of having members of Hank’s family here that makes Connor feel suddenly tender and exposed. It’s not just a political engagement anymore. Under normal circumstances, he might feel a touch blindsided by the friendliness of it all, but these are far from normal circumstances. He knows Hank far more intimately than any of the guests could possibly suspect, and despite his uncertainty, a bubble of excitement floats between his lungs. He wants to see Hank in this environment, loosened and comfortable—his most natural of habitats. 

“Come through,” Hank says, once Niles and Connor have had a chance to make brief conversation with those gathered at the front of the house. “Get yourselves a drink.”

When Hank moves, there is a noticeable slope to his shoulders, a gentle softness, far more comfortable in the sunlight and stripped wood than beneath the glare of spotlights and television cameras. There’s a certain smoothness to his voice as well, and Connor is reminded of something that Hank had said to him during his very first visit to the States. 

_Wait until you meet some of the Texan delegates. I’ll slip right back into it._

His Texas accent, long beaten sharp by months in the Capitol, is creeping back in. The fact makes Connor feel such a fondness for Hank that he has to pause in the doorway for a moment. 

Luckily, Niles has gone on ahead, his posture so severe and straight that he might have sewn steel boning into the seams of his clothes. A slightly shaken looking bartender pours two drinks of Niles’ choosing, evidently bewildered at the reality of serving the pair of them. Connor steps forward to take one of the glasses.

The inside of the house is quieter, all white wood and sky blue furnishings, and there’s one long table in the centre, set with covered plates. From another door that leads to the porch, there is the thick smell of barbeque, smoky and inviting. 

The ranch has been converted for events such as these, and as such there are no real home furnishings. It’s more like a cozy showroom, a well-dressed performance space. The long windows are shaded, keeping the room cool, and in the middle of the house there is a staircase that leads up to the next floor.

Drinks in hand, Hank guides them through to the back of the house. The garden is not really a garden as Connor knows it, with neat flower beds and sloping green lawns, perhaps the odd stone ornamentation. It’s a wide yard, filled with groups of laughing, chattering guests, standing or seated around three long trestle tables. A few members of staff float around, collecting empty glasses and offering refills. The grass on the lawn is just yellowed enough that it makes Connor glad that Amanda is not here to see it. 

At the bottom of the garden, a group of children run and shout, throwing a ball between them. Two dogs lope alongside, a shadow-like black labrador and Hank’s big St. Bernard, Sumo. 

The whole place feels more like a family party than a diplomatic networking opportunity. It fits Hank perfectly.

There are more introductions to be made, more politicians, more family members, more people who are definitely not politicians. Connor is shaking hands with the mayor of Dallas when there is a shout from the far end of the yard.

“Dad!”

One of the children has separated from the larger group and is running up the lawn towards them, the larger of the dogs following at his heels. Although he had not asked, Connor had just assumed that the children were a mismatched group, rather like the guests themselves—nieces and nephews and politician’s daughters. He had not accounted for what happens next. 

Hank walks forward and scoops the boy into a hug.

Connor’s chest does something very strange at the sight, a cold dip down towards his stomach, an anxious tightening. 

Of course. Cole—Hank’s son. He’d all but forgotten.

“Hey, bud,” Hank says, and his smile is so bright and indulgent that it only worsens the clenched feeling behind Connor’s heart. “Everything alright?”

For the time being, Cole is clearly disinterested in anything other than his father, because he embarks on a tale of exactly what he and Lucy and Kennedy had been doing along the fenceline. Sumo presses his wet nose against the back of Hank’s knee and he reaches down to scratch him behind the ear. The collected company sighs contentedly at the sweet family image.

Connor’s extremely glad that everyone’s immediate attention has been diverted away from him, because his hands have begun to shake. 

Once Cole has finished his story—the resolution of which Connor will never know, for he was too fixated on the crinkles at the sides of Hank’s eyes as he listened to his son—Hank puts his hand on his shoulder. 

“Here, got a couple of people I want you to meet,” he says, steering him in Niles’ direction. “This is His Majesty, King Niles. Your Majesty, this is my son, Cole.”

It seems ridiculous, positing the titles for a child to adhere to. But Cole is old enough—or perhaps he’s met far more important people than most ten year old boys—to nod respectfully and stick his hand out for Niles to shake. There’s a smear of dirt at his wrist, and Connor wonders for the briefest second whether Niles might ignore the gesture. He quickly realises that such a thought does his brother a disservice.

Niles takes Cole’s slightly grubby hand in his own, slender and finely manicured.

“Pleased to meet you, Cole.”

Cole grins—he has that same gap between his two front teeth as Hank does—enchanted by the idea that he’s shaking hands with a _king_.

“And this is His Royal Highness, Prince Connor.”

Connor shakes Cole’s hand in turn. He’s tall for his age, with a mop of dusty blond curls and a slightly serious set to his brow. Blue eyes in the sunlight. Although he isn’t sure, Connor suspects he could be looking at the spitting image of Hank, aged ten.

He tries very hard not to examine exactly why meeting Hank’s son has had such a profound impact on him. Perhaps it’s because it throws the reality of their situation into much sharper relief. Or because it shows Hank in a new and intimate and utterly dazzling light. And right at the back of Connor’s mind, hidden and barely known, it makes him think of other things, it makes him think of the future, of Hank’s hand wrapped around his waist where anyone might see. Connor’s head resting on his shoulder. 

“I saw you on TV last night,” Cole says, and his voice forces Connor to shake himself back to the present. “Dad was watching the news.”

“Oh?” Connor pointedly looks nowhere near Hank, focusing instead on keeping his voice light and interested. “Did you see us in Las Vegas?”

“Uh huh.” Cole nods. “In a big meeting hall.”

“We’re lucky that we get to meet lots of people while we’re here,” Connor says, even if he’s not completely convinced by his own words. Sumo trots up behind Cole and plops himself down on the grass, his tail thumping heavily against the edge of the boy’s trainer.

“This is Sumo,” Cole says, introducing him with a ten year old’s confidence that dogs are far more interesting than politics. “He’s Dad’s dog but sometimes he comes to stay with us.”

Connor bends to scratch at the soft fur behind one of Sumo’s ears. 

“Do you have a dog?” Cole asks. When Connor looks up, he can see Hank standing behind them, watching quietly. His expression is calm, a little tight around the edges.

“No,” Connor replies. “I like dogs. I don’t think I’d be very good at looking after one, though. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Cole nods, his face serious, and Hank moves to place his hand on his son’s shoulder. 

“We’re gonna serve some food in a minute,” Hank says, holding Connor’s gaze for a brief moment before looking back to Cole. “You wanna go round up Lucy and everyone else?”

“Sure, okay!” And Cole sets off at a run, Sumo following closely behind. That quiet, polite energy has unfurled itself and become spirited and wild once again—a reminder that he’s still a kid, no matter how many dignitaries he meets on the President’s land. “‘Bye!”

Connor raises a hand in farewell, his mouth quirked into a half-smile. Although he doesn’t say it, he feels like Cole just might be a testament to his father. 

Niles has disappeared from his side, and Connor can see him a few metres away, pulled into a discussion with two blonde haired women in lurid floral prints. 

So that leaves just Connor and Hank. The sunlight feels very warm across his cheeks, the starched line of his collar pressing into the skin at the back of his neck. 

“So, what does he think of all this? Cole?” Connor asks, gesturing around at the assembled guests. In his throat, his heartbeat thrums. 

“I reckon he’s used to it,” Hank smiles. “Besides, he’s on his best behaviour.”

Connor can tell instantly that he’s being modest. Pride blooms in every word.

Connor nods, unsure of what to say next. He knows what he would like to say. He would tell Hank how he has missed him, how he hasn’t stopped thinking about him since that grey highland morning when they last set eyes upon one another. How he cannot dream about anyone else but him. With words all spilled, he would fall into Hank’s arms and kiss every inch of him—his mouth, those high, sunkissed cheekbones, his throat.

Instead, in place of all of this, he takes a single, shaky inhale.

“This is a lovely house.” 

“It was my father’s,” Hank says. “And his father’s before him.” 

He’s watching Connor very intently, reading each line of his face, each shift of his expression. The entirety of his attention burns hotter than the sun; Connor can feel himself becoming weak and warm beneath it.

“Does anyone live here now?” 

Hank squints slightly in the high afternoon light. “Not for the last ten years.”

“Oh.” Connor does his best to look interested in this fact, just in case anyone is watching or listening to them too closely. “So then what’s on the second floor?”

He lays the words out like a code between them, each one delicately placed so that Hank might be able to reach his fingers inside and untangle their truer meaning. Thankfully, Hank is a smart man. Their relationship has grown inside secrets and hidden rooms, weighted words and fleeting, charged touch. A flicker of recognition dances across his face.

“Bedrooms, mostly. Couple of private bathrooms,” Hank continues. He moves closer to Connor, a tiny shift in his body that makes a hot, sharp spark jump between them. “There’s a big bedroom on the other side of the house, looking out over the front yard. You can see Houston from there.”

“What’s the skyline like?” Connor asks. He feels dense, lightheaded, each word pressing heavily against his tongue. Just another small movement and he would be close enough to smell Hank’s skin—fresh cologne, a day out in the sun.

“It’s beautiful,” Hank says. “You know, people tend to grab their food from inside and then come out and eat on the lawn. Anderson family style, nothing too formal.”

As he speaks, he gestures around at the long tables, already scattered with glasses, both empty and half-drunk. White tablecloths shift in the slight breeze.

Connor nods, understanding exactly what Hank is trying to tell him—when everyone is occupied, and they can seize the time together that they so desperately need. 

“I don’t think Niles has ever eaten with his fingers,” Connor says, and Hank laughs, that bright, open sound that Connor has come to love so dearly. Their proximity is setting Connor’s whole being alight.

“Give me five minutes.” 

As he passes by, Connor could swear—although perhaps it’s imagined, in his tense, wandering mind—that Hank’s fingers brush up against the outside of his wrist. It’s barely perceptible, a ghost of a touch, but it’s enough to send a shiver of anticipation up the column of Connor’s spine. 

It takes longer than five minutes for the guests to organise themselves, untangling from their various conversations and gathering around the foot of the porch. Hank steps forward to say a few words, and Connor stands at the back of the enraptured crowd, barely hearing him. It’s nothing to do with distance, he doesn’t doubt that the people around him can hear Hank perfectly, but he’s distracting himself—a flood of thoughts about Hank’s hands and the possibility of kissing him.

With everyone milling around, filling up plates and emptying back out onto the lawn, Connor makes his excuses. Heart in his mouth, he finds his way tentatively around the back of the wide staircase and heads to the upper floor of the house. He’s certain that he goes unseen, everyone too distracted by the wide silver platters of food that have been uncovered, but he can’t help the prickling that spreads over the back of his neck and right down across his shoulders.

At the top of the stairs, a long, white landing stretches out in both directions—to his right, the rooms overlooking the garden, to his left, the rooms with that hazy Houston view. Connor does his best to keep his posture loose, like he’s meant to be here, like he’s looking for something utterly innocent. The door at the end of the hall seems very far away. 

When he finally reaches it, he lets his fingers rest lightly against the handle for a moment. It would be so easy to go back downstairs, to just turn tail and stop putting his family and their reputation in so much danger. But then he thinks about Hank. Hank, with his low, rumbling voice and his blue eyes, and the way his hands seem to fit perfectly against the curve of Connor’s back, the roll and twist of his hips. He opens the door. There’s no other option, really.

Behind the door, there’s a bedroom. Large and spartan, with a sloping ceiling and the same pale washed floorboards that run through the rest of the house. A double bed sits beneath the wide window, made up with fresh linens and obviously unslept in. 

A further ten minutes pass. Connor memorises Houston’s skyline, its blocky indelicacy, its sudden rise and fall. Every beat of every building rising up out of the heat smoke of the ground.

He turns at the sound of approaching footsteps, eyes focused on the door handle. It rattles, and then it turns. 

Hank stands before him, a miracle in the afternoon light.

Connor would like to conjure up the right words, something enormous and profound, something as extraordinary as his heart. But it swirls, unreachable, pressing against the forefront of his mind. They rest on the tip of his tongue and nothing comes out.

Hank steps forward into the silence.

“Connor?” 

He looks concerned, Connor thinks. Worried, perhaps, that Connor’s silence is betraying some reluctance—rather than absolute and utter relief and amazement that they are in each other’s presence once more. The enormity of the private, stolen moment closes in on him from all sides.

In the end, he doesn’t talk. His shoes tap on the floorboards as he closes the gap between them, wrapping his arms around Hank’s shoulders, burying his face in his chest. 

“Hank.” His voice is muffled by Hank’s shirt. He’s glad of it, because his voice shudders and splinters, almost rending Hank’s name in two.

Hank’s arms close around Connor’s waist. They sink into each other and Connor closes his eyes, letting everything else fall away from around him, everything but the sound of Hank’s breathing and the dark, musky smell of his cologne. He’s not sure how long they stand like that, wrapped up in one another, fitting together like it was meant to be, as if they could become inseparable. 

Hank’s voice pulls Connor in, rumbling through him. 

“Hey, Connor, baby,” Hank mutters against Connor’s temple. “Don’t cry.”

“Oh.” Connor looses one hand from its place at Hank’s neck and raises it to his own cheek. With some surprise, he finds that his fingers come away wet. “I didn’t even realise.”

Hank laughs. Not his bright, shiny President’s laugh, but low and amazed, like he can’t believe Connor’s soft heart. Like he can’t believe Connor’s soft heart belongs to him.

“You okay?”

Connor swallows heavily. “Yes.” 

He puts his face into Hank’s chest again. 

“I hate this,” Connor says, biting down hard on each word. His voice is tight and petulant. How unfair that this should be their only moment together in months, for months, that they will have to go back to texts and hurried phone calls. He wants to stay in Hank’s arms forever. And worst of all, if things were different, he knows that that is exactly where his destiny would lie.

“None of that,” Hank says, hooking one finger under Connor’s chin. Connor half-expects Hank’s expression to be chastising, disappointed—but of course it isn’t. It is nothing of the sort. His face is unbearably soft, that same sense of great injustice and desperation that Connor feels is written in every single line around his mouth and eyes. “We have to make the most of this.”

Connor nods. “Kiss me, then.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Hank tips Connor’s head up a touch more, bringing his mouth down to meet his.

It’s as bright and burning as the first time, as the last time, as every time to come. Hank’s mouth is warm, and his hands pull Connor in even closer. His tongue presses against Connor’s own and a white-hot spark crackles down Connor’s spine, shaking him, reminding him of everything that makes Hank worth risking everything for.

“I missed you,” Connor says, their familiar mantra now. Suddenly, the inevitably of distance between them doesn’t matter anymore, because they have this. They have this, this golden, incredible thing, and one minute of this is worth one thousand minutes apart. 

“I missed you.” Hank kisses him again, sweet and unhurried. 

They stand together for a while, enjoying each other’s presence, revelling in the novelty of being close and being able to touch and share space. Connor wishes there were time for more. He wishes it in his very bones, sunk so deeply into him that he has to force himself—almost bodily, clenching his gut and biting down on the inside of his cheeks—to put a dampener on his own desires. 

“Is this your bedroom?” Connor asks. Despite his best efforts, he can’t help but imagine waking up next to Hank in this big white room, with the morning light streaming in through the thin curtains. The Houston skyline hazy in the distance, and then brilliant in the darkness, too, a mere memory with Hank’s hands all over him. 

“Sometimes,” Hank replies, a crooked smile on his face like he can read Connor’s thoughts. “I normally stay at the back of the house. Cole, too, when he’s here. Nice to give the guests the room with a view.”

The sudden mention of Hank’s son makes Connor’s chest hurt; a tight ball seizing behind his breastbone. He remembers Hank’s smile, his attentive gaze. 

“It was nice to meet Cole.” As he speaks, his voice catches in his throat. 

Hank doesn’t look wholly convinced of his truthfulness. “Yeah?” 

“Yes,” Connor says forcefully. And he means it. He means it because it was nice to see that other side of Hank, familial and intimate, and to know him more deeply. If he were permitted—by time, place, position—he would know everything there is to know about Hank. 

“Where’s Cole’s mother?” With a twist in his gut, he thinks _your ex-wife_. He doesn’t say it.

“She’s working.” Hank’s answer is short, but he doesn’t sound unhappy with the line of questioning. Distracted, perhaps, kissing the soft skin beneath Connor’s ear. 

“What does she do?” Connor asks. The questions roll out of him; it's a downfall really, it always has been, this insatiable curiosity. 

“She’s a lawyer,” Hank replies. “A real hotshot.” 

Connor half-knew this, from his research and from his previous conversations with Hank. 

“And does she know about…” Connor shrugs, a loose gesture so that he doesn’t have to remove his hands from their place at the back of Hank’s neck. “Everything?”

Hank’s eyes widen in abject shock. “About us?”

“No!” Connor’s stomach drops at the mere suggestion, and Hank looks instantly relieved. He knows that they have both kept this hand of cards—an unpredictable, destructive game-changer—close to their chest. “God, no. I mean… about you.”

Hank’s jaw tightens, and Connor wonders if he’s straying into dangerous waters. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You know.” 

How hard would it have been to just keep his thoughts and questions to himself? He considers backpedalling, throwing back up that wall of professional anonymity and apologising for being so forward. But he doesn’t. He lets the words sit on his tongue for a second and then, brave or reckless, pushes them forward.

“Does she know that you like men?”

The question hovers between them, weighty and impassable. Perhaps this was not the appropriate time and place for such important conversations, perhaps Hank would be well within his rights to put an end to it all for the next however many months. 

In the end, he gives a short exhale through his nose, and pulls Connor in close. 

“Shit, Connor, I don’t know.” He doesn’t sound sad, or angry. He sounds resigned. “Did I come out to my ex-wife right before I put an end to our marriage? No. Does she know, on some level, even though I didn’t say anything?” 

Another pause. Connor listens closely to the steady rhythm of Hank’s heart. 

“Yeah, probably.”

Tilting his head up, Connor places a kiss to the underside of Hank’s chin, the corner of his jaw, his mouth. He kisses him for his honesty and his vulnerability, and for the way he has laid himself so bare and so candid in the face of Connor’s questions. 

“You could tell people, you know,” Connor says quietly. Even as the words fall from his lips, he knows that they’re not the truth. 

“I don’t think America’s ready for a gay president,” Hank says, with a shake of his head. 

Connor feels immensely sad for him, for his desires hidden away in that great white house, concealed behind the sheen of marriage and his wonderful son. Sliding his hands away from Hank’s neck, he wraps his arms around the thick trunk of his torso. He tries to tell him without words that it’s okay, that he’s here. They’ve found this.

“Besides,” Hank continues, pulling away so that he can study Connor’s face. “I’m not as brave as you.”

_Brave._ Connor doesn’t think it has anything to do with bravery, really. It’s all down to luck and circumstance. His coming out was facilitated by his mother’s expert hand, by being in the wrong place at the right time, by not having any particular accountability foisted upon him by his unelected position. If there are people who disagree with Connor’s lifestyle—and of course there are—they can just disagree and be damned. Hank doesn’t have the luxury of that. 

“Thank you,” Connor says. 

“For what?” Hank asks, tracing Connor’s jawline with his thumb.

“For telling me.”

They kiss again, Connor’s hands pulling Hank’s body in against his own, Hank’s hands cupping Connor’s face with a rough, heavy certainty. It feels as though something has shifted between them. A positive movement, like a twist in the heavens that allows the stars to finally align. It’s blistering, and beautiful, and Connor feels blessed to be allowed to be one half of any of it.

They revel in each other’s company for a few more minutes. Hank undoes the top two buttons of Connor’s shirt and bites down against the soft space beneath his clavicle, right where the bracket of bone meets his shoulder. It will bruise, and they both know it.

“We should go back downstairs,” Hank says. As he speaks, he presses each word into Connor’s lips. They could stand here together for another hour, and then spend a further hour rucking up all the perfect white sheets on the perfect white bed. Connor sighs.

“Okay.”

He tries to hold on to that feeling of being gifted something so wonderful, rather than disappointment that it has to come to an end so quickly. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Hank says, as they finally unravel from one another. “Independence Day is in a few months.”

It’s an interesting non-sequitur. Connor watches Hank carefully, doing up one of the buttons of his shirt. 

“There’s been discussion of inviting foreign dignitaries to share in the celebrations this year. Some kind of olive branch—only it’s got fireworks attached to the end of it.” Hank grins. “You reckon you could organise that?”

Delight floods Connor, sweeping in a bright wave, right to the very soles of his feet. July. That’s not far away at all. Although he knows there will be other official pathways to navigate rather than just his individual acceptance of his invitation, Connor can’t help the anticipation that stirs instantly within him.

“Absolutely,” Connor says, with a nod.

“Good.” Hank reaches out for Connor a final time, pressing one big hand to his waist. “I’ll take care of you properly.”

“You promise?”

“Baby,” Hank mutters, and his voice is dangerously close to winding them up in an embrace once more. “I promise.”

Connor takes a shaky breath, squeezing Hank’s fingers tightly with his own.

“Five minutes.”

With one more kiss, Hank goes, pulling the door shut quietly behind him. 

Connor stays in the quiet room, listening to the dying sound of Hank’s footsteps, and then straining to hear his voice travelling out into the garden. He counts down the seconds, and then he counts down the days until July.

When the minutes have passed, he makes his way down the staircase to find that the house is mercifully empty. Through the windows, he can see groups of people scattered on the wraparound porch, holding plates and glasses, their heads bowed in conversation. To keep up pretences, Connor grabs a drink and heads out onto the lawn. A slow reentry, stopping to talk to people on the way down, making sure that no one has noticed his absence.

Niles is seated at the end of one of the long tables, another full glass and an empty plate in front of him. When he sees Connor approaching, he raises a hand in greeting. 

He makes no move to get to his feet. It doesn’t take Connor long to see why. 

Sumo, for whatever inexplicable reason, seems to have taken a liking to the distant, reserved king, and is resting his head in Niles’ lap. Connor can hear Niles internal voice now, loud and clear: _this damn dog is getting hair all over my trousers._

With everything resting inside his chest and over his shoulders, the distance they have travelled, the joy and the frustration in his relationship with Hank, Connor can’t help but laugh at the sight. The sound is a little giddy, wild in the late afternoon light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ideally this chapter would be paired up with chapter 9! but then it reached 10k words so i decided to find a good place to break it off and post it :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor and Niles continue their journey across the USA. Secrets begin to shift in the sand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is another long one - a perfect complement to chapter 8!

It’s dark by the time their cars arrive to take them back to the hotel. Hank sees Connor and Niles off at the door, with big, warm handshakes for both of them and an insistence that they enjoy the rest of their stops across the country. When Connor’s hand is in Hank’s own, some small, sparking part of him thinks about pulling him in close and kissing him hard on the mouth.

He can see it playing out like a film before him, reflected in the blue of Hank’s eyes. Hank’s big hand at the back of his neck. The gasps from the last few guests standing on the porch. Mutters and rumours already spreading fast.

None of these things happen, of course.

Connor and Hank shake hands, trade professional thanks for their presence, for the hospitality, and Connor climbs into the back of the waiting car. On the drive back into the city, he and Niles sit in almost complete silence. Face turned to the window, Connor bites his lip against the frustrated tears that threaten, sharp prickles somewhere behind the bridge of his nose. 

The next day, they have a few more meetings in Houston, an early lunch and a tour around the Johnson Space Center—where they listen to a long talk about American scientific history with practised looks of intense interest upon their faces. Connor smiles, answers questions, makes polite conversation, but with their sole visit to Hank over and done with, he feels somewhat despondent about the rest of the trip. The remaining days stretch out before him, endless and bleak, the next star on his map shining far beyond the gloomy horizon. 

They leave their motorhome behind in Houston, favouring air travel for their next stop—Chicago. Connor is a little sad to leave the vehicle behind; he’ll miss the broad stripes of American country flashing by outside their windows, desert beige to lush green and back again.

As they board the plane, Connor feels his phone—the one from Hank, sequestered away and secret—hum low against his chest, where it’s tucked into his inside pocket. The sudden electric buzz sends his heart crackling right along with it.

When they’re in the air, he can’t help the insistent drift of his fingers towards his pocket, itching to check the screen and see what Hank has sent him. But it’s too much of a risk; he’ll have to wait until he’s got absolute privacy before he can do anything. Three hours pass slowly but he lets the message rest, a sealed envelope tucked right beside his heart. 

Chicago seems far cooler than Houston, mostly because the yellow Texan sun has been pulled away behind the layers of thick city cloud. As they step out onto the tarmac—Niles in front, Connor following behind—Connor watches as the high wind takes hold of his brother’s coattails and whips them up into the air. It grabs hold of his hair, too, threatening to twist the severe, slicked look back into its natural waves. Niles looks only mildly put out by the fact.

They arrive at their hotel in the early evening. The entrance is a grand, gold archway set down an unassuming side street, nestled right in the centre of the bustling city. They’ve been given separate suites this time, situated on opposite sides of the sprawling top floor, with their staff staying in the rooms below. 

North leaves them at their rooms before heading off to set up their security hub. 

“One hour,” she says, tapping her watch. 

It’s more than enough time for Connor to lock the door to his room and finally take the phone out of his pocket. It’s been burning a hole in his chest since long before they landed. 

On the screen, there are three notification bubbles from Hank, indicating that he messaged while Connor was in the air. His thumb shakes as he swipes the texts open. 

_(11:05) Headed back to DC this morning x_

_(12:34) It was good to see you_

_(12:36) I can’t stop thinking about you._

The last message hits Connor right in the very centre of his chest. A clenched iron fist, a flat palm. He has to sit down on the edge of the bed. 

He knows with certainty that the depths of their emotions are reciprocated. It’s something else to read it, though, plain as day, tapped out by Hank’s own hand and flown over a thousand miles. The idea that Hank thinks about him with the same unfaltering constancy, that Connor’s presence, the memory of them together, hovers in the corners of his mind no matter what… It makes a lump form in the base of Connor’s throat. He swallows it down, hard, and puts the handset away. It will do him no good to dwell on it now.

He stands to look out at the city. Beyond the plate glass, a sea of silver windows shimmers back at him. Thousands of people in hundreds of buildings. He wonders if any of their lives are as strange as his. Perhaps. 

Connor rests his forehead against the glass for a second, staring far past his own reflection.  
In the distance rolls one dark corner of Lake Chicago, grey and choppy. 

They spend the rest of the day touring the city, boarding a bright yellow river taxi and winding on a leisurely route through towering skyscrapers. The buildings stretch into the clouds, a forest of white and brown brick, seared by the wind and the rain. On the esplanade, people walk dogs, or run, or sit outside one of the many brightly-awned cafes. Connor and Niles share their gracious questions about the city’s history, and as the sun sets, the buildings around them begin to light up—art projections and advertisements, turning the water flat and bright.

Beneath the metropolitan bustle and sea of smiling faces presented to them, Connor feels a thread of loneliness running below their feet, the empty thrum of the city. Maybe all cities are like this, filled to their banks with an anonymous flow of people, the crisscross of so many different lives. 

Or perhaps it's just Connor, missing Hank. Missing the warmth of his arms.

They spend two days in Chicago before they leave for Washington, DC. In some strange, detached way, it feels like going home. They have no meeting with the President scheduled—Connor pores over the itinerary more than enough times, as if Hank’s name might just appear out of nowhere—but the knowledge that they’re moving closer settles in around his heart. A bittersweet pull tugs him towards the capital.

In what is presumably some bizarre attempt to see all of the United States’ systems of transport, they board the evening sleeper train from Chicago to DC. As they find their way through the narrow corridors to their cabin, Niles explains how this rail follows a historic line, and Connor listens to less than half of what he is saying. 

Outside the window, the opposite platforms are soaked in the late afternoon sunlight, and he watches passengers unloading luggage, greeting their loved ones. Saying goodbye.

Their sleeper car is meant for four, two conjoined rooms each with a chair, a small shower room and a pair of neatly made up bunk beds that fold out of the wall. There’s a sliding divide that can be held open to make a communal space, or locked closed to create two private rooms. It’s sparse in its decoration, navy sheets and crisp white pillowcases, and Connor is glad for the simplicity. 

Leaving his bags untouched, he sits and watches as they rumble and shake their way out of the city, grey buildings becoming low houses with big yards, becoming hillside after high green hillside. 

The landscape rushes by as they enter evening in Indiana, and wind along the edge of a lake that is surrounded by trees. Dark in the low light, the leaves push on towards their summer glory; in a month or so the whole valley will be in its fullest bloom. Connor is reminded somewhat of their Scottish house, nestled amongst the highland greenery, as if they might turn the corner and see its hills cresting on the far off horizon. 

Once darkness has fallen, Connor and Niles head to the dining car for their evening meal. The carriage has been cleared out for them, just one table set against one of the windows. Through the doors on either side, Connor can see the occasional glimpse of an excited face pressed up against the glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of the royals dining together. 

Niles is wearing a dark suit and a grey shirt, the fine material shot through with narrow lines of gold. His face above his collar is very pale, gaunt in the broad bands of moonlight that sweep through the carriage like low set searchlights. Connor wonders if he’s sickening for something. Of course Niles would never tell him, were that even the case, and Connor has learnt not to ask. 

The food they’re served is welcoming and uncomplicated—fish with a bright salsa, baked chicken in tomato sauce. Neither of them comment on the simplicity of the dishes, a far cry from what they’re used to, but Connor enjoys the lack of fanfare, and Niles clears both of the plates that are set before him. A carafe of white wine sits between them, sweating beads of condensation down onto the tablecloth. 

They discuss a few of the recent headlines, their Prime Minister’s negotiations with the head of the trade unions, riots on the streets of several European cities after the results of a reportedly rigged election. Amanda has been visiting Ireland over the past few days—taking her own bold political steps without her sons—and Niles explains briefly that she has been in contact.

“Mother wanted to know how our trip was going,” Niles says, taking a sip from his wine glass. 

“And?” Connor asks, spearing a slice of chicken on the end of his fork. “What did you tell her?” 

“I told her that everything has been fine.”

As far as his older brother is concerned, that’s praise of the highest order. Connor can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. Despite it all, despite the great well of secrets that seethes inside him, he knows that they have done a good job. They have made important diplomatic progress in the face of an initially unfriendly republic, they have maintained the integrity of their institution. Even if Niles has had his moments of doubt, this trip has been a successful culmination of his family’s efforts. 

“I haven’t travelled like this since before Father died,” Niles continues, and for a split second, there’s a flicker of something vulnerable in his expression. 

They don’t talk about their father often. Connor remembers those days, when he was off on his misguided university adventures, how every morning he would open the paper to a different picture of his brother and his father in a new, far off location. 

They were very close, Connor knows that. Cut from the same cloth, cold and perfect in a way that Connor never was. He resented it once upon a time, and that same resentment blinded him to the reality of just how much his brother was shaken by their father’s death. A great flood of remorse blooms in his chest, pressing his lungs tight against his ribcage. 

“You’ve coped very well,” Connor says, keeping his voice as calm as possible. Although they seem staid and cliche on the surface, he tries to imbue the words with some emotional weight. Some assertion that things have gone to plan. 

“Mm.” 

Niles doesn’t sound convinced. Connor can see some unknown scene playing before his brother’s eyes, berating himself for being too harsh, not harsh enough, too cold. There’s no point in pushing it. Connor turns his gaze to the window and watches for the few towns that pass by, glittering like islands of stars in a black sea. 

A waiter in a neat dinner jacket serves them dessert, two scoops of ice cream in shallow glass bowls. Coffee, too, tiny cups of dark brown liquid, steam rolling off them into the warm air. 

“How have you found the trip so far?” Niles asks. He’s left his bowl abandoned in favour of the espresso, and the dessert is melting quickly into a thick, creamy pool. Connor is fully aware that, in part, his question belongs to their mother.

“I’ve enjoyed it,” Connor replies, and he’s surprised to find that his words are not completely untrue. Although he finds the constant barrage of meetings overwhelming, and the constant travelling tiring, he has enjoyed seeing the different cities in their dazzling, lonely glory. When he steps back and looks at the bigger picture, he feels as if some of their meetings might have actually made a difference.

And Hank, of course. Seeing Hank. Being held in his arms again. Being given that promise of closeness in July, a shimmering, distant heat. 

“And President Anderson? What do you think of him?”

It’s as if Niles can read his mind. 

Connor keeps his face impassive, hoping sincerely that the sudden flush of warmth in his chest doesn’t creep up behind his collar. He lifts his spoon to his mouth, buying himself a beat of time.

Connor chooses each word with the utmost, measured care. He can hear his heartbeat in his head. “I think that this continued dialogue with him has been beneficial for both our countries. The Prime Minister could probably learn a thing or two from him.”

Niles nods. 

“I agree. Although, truthfully…” Niles pauses. “He’s unlike any world leader I have ever met.”

Niles is absolutely right, of course. Doesn’t Connor know it. 

_He’s unlike any person I’ve ever met._ The thought passes unbidden across Connor’s mind. A sudden, wild impulse flares up within him, surging like a wave—the urge to tell his brother everything. Niles has known him in unhappy relationships, tumultuous, public storms, thunderous and crushing. He wants to tell him. _This thing I’ve found. This person I’ve found, he makes me so happy._

The knowledge that he can’t, and never will be able to, say any of those things makes his throat constrict. He takes a sip of coffee, forcing his emotion back below the surface.

“That event,” Niles continues with a little shake of his head. 

Connor can’t tell if he’s disapproving or impressed, or somewhere in between. 

“That event, that dinner, it was more like a family barbeque than a diplomatic engagement.”

Connor knows full well that Niles has never attended a family barbeque. He’s not sure exactly which frame of reference he’s drawing from, but it’s an accurate one.

“That’s what’s made him so successful,” Connor says. “His people relate to him. They trust him. He doesn’t treat anyone like his subjects…” He waves his hand in a loose gesture, worried that that particular choice of words might strike a little too close to home. “Or whatever. Perhaps we could learn a thing or two from him as well.”

Niles gives him a cool look, even and unreadable. Anyone else might think that he was about to shut Connor down, to castigate him for speaking out of turn—but Connor knows his brother better than that. He has a sneaking suspicion that Niles thinks he’s right.

They don’t talk about Hank again, and Connor is thankful. Not because he’s worried about revealing anything in particular—he’s trained his own actions well enough, for long enough. But rather because talking about Hank in that restrained, economic way makes something sharp grow against the tender parts of his heart. It’s just easier not to say anything at all. 

By the time they head back to their carriage, the corridors are empty of people. Low orange lamps light their way, and the dark windows reflect their faces back at them as clearly as if they were looking into a mirror. It’s very quiet, even the rumbling and rattling of the train seeming lessened by the press of the night on all sides. 

They enter their rooms, and Niles goes to close the partitioning door between them.

“Goodnight, Connor.”

“You can leave it open, if you want,” Connor says. He can’t remember the last time he and Niles shared a bedroom. Twenty years ago, if not more, and the thought of doing so gives him a nostalgic twinge in the base of his spine. 

Niles looks at him. Something tightens in his jaw, and Connor wonders if he’s spoken out of turn.

But then he steps back, uncurling his fingers from the doorframe. 

“Okay.”

Connor smiles. “Sleep well.”

“You too.” 

Once Connor gets into bed, sleep comes slowly and stays only in fits and starts. One moment Connor is acutely aware of the rock and roll of the train, the shudder over every change in the tracks, and the next he’s aboard a sailboat, rising and falling on the ocean. He dreams that he can see the earth rushing beneath them, rails over dust and gravel and then over the measured pulse of the ocean. 

He dreams that Hank is beside him. He knows his lips in the salt spray, he dreams the blue of his eyes so clearly that they disappear behind the waves, and they take him along with them. Hank’s name on Connor’s lips tastes like saltwater. 

When he wakes properly for the first time, the light that seeps through the thin curtain is watery and pale, barely enough to illuminate his feet at the end of the bed. He fumbles for his watch on the small bedside table, and checks it to find that it’s just after five-thirty am. Through the open partition Connor can see Niles, still asleep, his back turned towards him. 

He crawls to the edge of the bunk and opens the curtain to find the world beyond the window is one he barely recognises. The milky dawn light has turned the distant hillsides to magical indigo, high ridges that glow from behind with the promise of the sunrise. It could just be him and Niles left in the whole world, curving through the blue-green land, rolling on beneath the lightening bowl of the sky.

Morning takes them through the Potomac Valley, the sky steadily turning from a bleached dawn haze to the clear, searing blue of daylight. Niles wakes at around eight, peering through the doorway to say good morning—eyes bleary and hair out of place. 

They arrive in DC in the early afternoon, pulling in beneath the heavy concrete dome of Union Station. As they step out onto the platform, there’s a small crowd of interested onlookers waiting at a makeshift barrier, most of them snapping pictures with hefty cameras or tinny, flashing phones. He can see the headlines now: _A Royal Return to DC_.

Connor imagines seeing Hank at the back of the crowd—for he would be head and shoulders above everyone else—a surprise visit to welcome them to the capital city, a warm hand clasping Connor’s shoulder. It’s a ridiculous thought, though, and as they wave politely to the crowd, there are no faces he recognises. 

Whilst in DC, they have one night’s stay arranged in the British Embassy, as well as dinner and drinks with the Secretary of State. They meet her in a rooftop bar overlooking the wide boulevard of Pennsylvania Avenue, and spend the evening watching headlights streak down towards them like fireworks. 

Secretary of State Tina Chen—although she insists straight away that they just call her Tina—is dressed in a vivid pink suit, with her dark hair pulled away from her face in a neat bun. She greets them with the kind of down to earth professionalism and bright humour that Connor would absolutely expect from a member of Hank’s government. He’s done his research beforehand and read up on her foreign policy—it’s one that is frankly incredible, considering all that has come before her. They spend a pleasant evening discussing the pros and cons of Las Vegas (although Niles makes it clear that he doesn’t believe there are any particular pros), American rest stops, the finalisation of the States’ groundbreaking trade deals with China. 

They also discuss the final stop on their trip: two nights in Shenandoah National Park, just over the stateline and into the blueness of the Virginia mountains. 

“My partner and I went hiking there last summer,” Tina says. “You’ll like it.” She’s drinking martinis garnished with tiny pickled onions, small and white as pearls. _It’s a Gibson,_ she’d told them when the first one was placed down in front of her, _weirdly delicious._ “You must be sick of cities by now.” 

Connor nods. “I’m looking forward to the peace and quiet.”

“And it’s just the two of you?” she asks, looking between the pair of them. “Brave. I think my sister would tear my hair out if we had to spend more than a day together.”

Connor looks at Niles. How to neatly distil their relationship—lonely and distant, endlessly intertwined and sympathetic—down into something palatable enough for a relative stranger? His brother doesn’t meet his gaze.

“We get along well enough,” Niles says, his fingers toying with the stem of his wine glass. “Thank you.”

Perhaps it was not the playful reply Tina was expecting. For the rest of the evening, they leave questions of their fraternal relationship by the wayside. 

They set off for Shenandoah at first light, just Niles and Connor and one member from each of their security teams—the others will stay in the capital and return home with them from Dulles International in a few days time. Just the quiet of the mountains and the dark snake of the Shenandoah River running past their cabin. Connor feels a stillness wrap around their little party as they make their way out of the grey city and head for the mountains.

The park is glorious in the almost-summer. They drive through the low trails, and the heavy green boughs overhead throw the road before them into a dusky shadow, as if the press of nighttime is trailing along behind them. As they climb higher, the trees thin a little until their path is dappled with sunlight, swept golden on the leafy verges and showing broad stripes of cloudless sky above. They stop on the crest of one of the hills and look down at the valley below them, a dark plateau beneath the curving rise of the land. The mountains loom all sides, stained purple in the late morning light. 

Their cabin is nestled further into the forest, far off the beaten asphalt track. It’s an unassuming structure, a high gabled roof with tall windows that stretch up right beneath the eaves, opening onto the rich, broad vista of the forest. 

North—looking somewhat indignant in her hiking boots and jeans—and Niles’ chief of staff will be staying in another cabin about half a mile away. They both look reluctant to leave their charges, but Connor assures them that they will be safe. Their clandestine location has been shared only with the relevant security teams, their own and the President’s, and they are a tiny pinprick in five hundred square miles of dense woodland and wild terrain. 

“The service out here is terrible,” North says, shaking her head at the flashing empty bars on her phone’s screen. “What if you need to get in contact with us?”

“We can look after ourselves for a couple of days,” Connor assures her. 

She looks at him with her eyes narrowed.

“I’m not sure that’s strictly true,” she replies, but then, with one hand raised in resignation, she slips the phone back into her pocket. “But, okay. Risk assessment says it’s fine, it’s fine. Just don’t go falling down any ditches.”

“We’ll do our best.” 

Connor bids her farewell with a smile, and she gives him a look that says: _I swear to god, I will kill you if you get yourself hurt._ He feels touched by her concern. 

After the constant buzz of the city, the mountain silence seems impossible. Inside the house, it engulfs them from all sides, two hands pressing in until even the ticking of the clock on the kitchen wall seems deafening. When Connor steps outside on the veranda, he can hear the high calls of birds in flight, the rush of the muddy river running below. 

Using the supplies that have been left for them in the cabin, they make dinner—a novelty for Niles, still in the palace and with an entourage of staff at his beck and call—and eat it on the back porch. They’re quiet, mostly. They discuss the possibility of hiking tomorrow, the routes that they want to take. 

“There are some difficult walks around here,” Niles comments. “A few of them link up with the path behind this cabin.” 

Of course he’s found the list of routes, probably cross referenced them by difficulty and location to give Connor the most convenient heart attack possible. 

“Maybe we could do something a bit easier,” Connor says, thinking of his brother with his pre-breakfast runs and his yearly marathons. “Unless you want to carry me back from the halfway point.”

“Fine,” Niles replies, just short of rolling his eyes. “I’ll think of something else.” 

The sounds of the evening settle in around them, bird calls replaced by the scrape of crickets in the long grass. In the distance, mountainous shadows paint themselves against the red-gold sunset. 

As darkness falls in earnest, Niles excuses himself and heads for his bedroom. Connor has noticed a strange tension in his brother since they arrived out here in the wilderness. Perhaps he’s unused to the new sounds littering the quiet—replacing the scream of car horns and the rumble of engines.

Or perhaps it’s the anticipation of going home in a few days time. Niles is caught in that final, high, piercing note of tension that will hum on and on until his feet find familiar ground and he can finally let himself relax. If _relax_ is even a word that he carries in his vocabulary. 

Connor sits out on the decking for a little while longer, listening to the night. More than once, he thinks about getting his phone and sending Hank a message. He even composes the words in his head. 

_I miss you. It’s painful to be so close to you and not get to see you. I can’t wait to see you in a few months. I fucking miss you. It hurts how much I miss you._

His thoughts run on until every last sentence feels cliched and overworked, not worth the metaphorical paper that they’re written on. Besides, he remembers North’s complaints about the lack of signal out here, and deems it better to go to sleep without checking the phone at all. 

The next morning dawns grey and overcast. A thick mist hangs over the river, rendering the opposite bank barely visible, the mountains nothing more than a dream. 

Connor comes downstairs to find that Niles is already awake, the bitter smell of fresh coffee filling the kitchen. One of the windows is open and the room is cool enough that Connor shivers, regretting his decision not to put on socks and shoes before venturing down. The kitchen table is spread with maps, nonsensical topographic gradients sinking down into dark green and rising up to yellow, orange route lines snaking along the contours.

“I made coffee.” Niles gestures to the machine in the corner, still bubbling and hissing, glass pot half emptied. “It’s not very good.”

Connor gives a little laugh at his brother’s candidness—kings don’t know how to make their own coffee—and pours himself a cup anyway. Just one sip is enough to tell him that Niles was right about its quality. He adds two spoonfuls of sugar. 

They spend a little while marking out routes, eating toast from plates printed with _Rare North American Wildlife_ details, and drinking coffee. Connor makes the second pot.

By the time they’re getting ready to leave, the sun has started to peek from behind the clouds. The mountains wash their way into view as Connor dresses—walking boots that haven’t seen the light of day since January, a lightweight raincoat that Niles left out for him, small enough to fold up into its own hood. 

He studies his reflection in the mirror, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his forehead. He looks tired, he thinks, but with a quiet, reserved confidence, something in him changed. Do other people see it too? Does Niles?

There’s no time to think more deeply about it. Niles calls from downstairs, his voice sudden and raised.

“Connor?”

He doesn’t sound worried, exactly. His tone is calm and level, but the act of him calling out is enough to make Connor start. Niles is the kind to sit, impatiently drumming his fingers, and berate Connor on his untimely arrival for not sensing that his presence was required. The urgency in the very action makes alarm bells ring in Connor’s skull.

He takes the stairs as quickly as is dignified, finding Niles standing before the open front door. A jacket and a stack of neatly folded maps lay discarded on the kitchen table. There’s the smell of the forest, damp and cool in the late morning, flowing through into the living space. And somewhere, beneath the rushing sound of the river, is the rumble of a running car engine.

“There’s another car down there,” Niles says. “It just pulled up beside ours.”

“Is it North?” Connor asks, and Niles throws him a look which highlights that as a stupid question. He doesn’t dignify it with a proper answer.

“Look for yourself.”

Connor peers out behind Niles’ shoulder and sure enough, parked in the empty space next to their blue rental vehicle is a shiny black SUV, its wheels muddied from the drive up.

Although Connor doesn’t recognise the car, he knows instantly who is inside it. Familiar shadows press up against the tinted windows where the thin sunlight shines through them, and the knowledge explodes inside his chest like a firework. 

Connor’s heart takes up a sudden, unwelcome residence behind his teeth. “It’s the President.”

Niles whips around to face him. 

“What?”

Connor hopes that he has adequate time to smooth out his expression, replacing pale shock with something politely puzzled, the innocuous consternation of _what could he possibly be doing here?_ He’s not sure how successful he is, so for fear of meeting his brother’s eyes with anything incriminating, he merely supplies an upward flick of his chin in answer. 

Niles turns to look. Sure enough, there are two people climbing out of the car. From the driver’s side, a man wearing a neat black polo shirt and slacks, dark sunglasses. 

Then, the passenger’s side door opens and Hank steps out. 

Hank. Connor feels his heart skip a beat, forcing itself tightly against the back of his throat. 

Hank is dressed in dark jeans and a brightly printed shirt, loose and casual, clearly not treating this as any kind of diplomatic engagement. Niles bristles at the sight.

“Good morning!” Hank calls up to them, one hand raised to shade his eyes against the sunlight. Even in this strangest of scenarios, it’s good to hear his voice. 

Niles springs into action, heading down the front steps so that he can shake Hank’s hand.

“Good morning, Mr President. This is quite a surprise.”

Connor doesn’t think anyone has ever sounded less surprised in their life. 

“My team rang ahead,” Hank explains, hands spread apologetically, “but I’m sure you’ve worked out what the service is like around here.”

Niles nods. 

“Anyway, I had a few meetings that fell through,” Hank continues, “and I thought you might like a guide this morning.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Niles replies stiffly, and he doesn’t look like he knows what else to say. For him, this kind of sudden appearance is unheard of—meetings take planning and preparation and weeks of research. One doesn’t just show up. 

Connor’s fondness for Hank shines, fresh petals blooming in his chest. He takes a step forward, passing Niles.

“Mr President.”

“Your Highness.” Hank shakes Connor’s hand in turn. His gaze is soft, and Connor can read every flicker of emotion in his eyes. _I missed you too much. I couldn’t wait another two months._ It’s reckless, certainly, and Connor wants nothing more than to kiss him for his recklessness—his wildness, his bravery.

“Give us a few minutes to organise ourselves.” Niles is at the front door once again, almost halfway inside the house.

“Sure.” Hank turns to his aide, leaning against the side of their SUV. “Could you get Sumo for me?”

With a nod, the man disappears around the back of the car.

They’re barely alone, certainly not isolated enough for Connor to fulfil all his wishes of falling into Hank’s arms and burying his face in his chest.

“Thank you for coming,” Connor says, quietly and calmly enough that no one should hear. Even if they did, they wouldn’t suspect anything. The breeze rustles in the trees high above their heads.

Hank’s voice is hardly more than a whisper. “Are you glad?” 

Connor nods. Hank presses his thumb against Connor’s wrist, barely there. A fleeting, wordless promise.

Their moment is broken by the sound of the back door of the car opening, and then a heavy thud as Sumo jumps down out of the trunk. Connor bows his head politely and excuses himself.

When he gets back into the house, Niles is nowhere to be seen. Assuming that he’s gone back up to his bedroom for something, Connor collects up his own bag and slings it over one shoulder. His fingers tremble as he tightens the straps. 

Hands braced firmly against the edge of the kitchen counter, he stares down into the yard where Hank is attaching a leash to Sumo’s collar. He has to take a minute to gather himself. Deep breaths, shaking in, flooding out. Hank is here, metres away, flesh and blood and laughter as Sumo licks his palm. 

Niles’ voice sounds from behind him.

“Are you ready to go?”

They face each other, and Connor thinks that his brother looks a little shell shocked. Worried by the change of plan, maybe, by Hank’s unexpected appearance—all of this in his own incredibly professional way, of course, stony faced and pale.

“Oh.” Connor mentally shakes himself. “Yes.”

“Fine.”

When they join Hank at the bottom of the steps, he has the end of Sumo’s leash held tightly in one hand. Connor bends down to scratch the big dog behind his ears and earns a wet nose to the cheek for his trouble.

“Shall I lead on?” Hank asks.

Niles gives a polite wave of his hand— _go ahead_. All thoughts of carefully marked up maps appear to have been abandoned, left behind on the kitchen table. 

The day is pleasant, not too warm, but with honeyed patches of sunlight that begin to show up on the way to kiss their cheeks. Hank leads them along a route that runs next to the broadness of the river and then begins to turn upwards, taking them into the hills. The passage cut out by the water tapers as they climb, and they stop and watch as a narrow creek tumbles over into a gushing waterfall. 

Sumo pads cheerfully alongside them, stopping occasionally to sniff something at the side of the path.

“He doesn’t get to come out into the great outdoors as much as he used to,” Hank comments, grinning down at the dog as he sticks his nose into a bush with thick, waxy leaves. “Reckon he’s getting tired of President’s Park.”

The comment is thrown out to both of them, loose and casual, and Connor looks to the side to see if Niles will reply. It doesn’t even look like his brother is listening, instead he’s watching the track in front of them as it begins to rise into a steeper incline. Evidently he’s not interested in engaging in a lighthearted conversation about dogs.

“It’s lucky he could come and visit us, then,” Connor replies. In a fairer world, he feels a swell of certainty that this would be the time to step forward and take Hank’s hand in his own. They would fall gradually into step, side by side, fingers intertwined. Hank’s palm would be warm, slightly rough. Perhaps he would pause to lean down and kiss Connor’s temple, right over a softening curl of his hair. 

As it is, he is forced to stay back with Niles and allow Hank to walk before them—guiding them, as he’d promised. The path grows steeper and conversation between them peters off into little more than brief comments, punctuated by the steady crunch of their footsteps and the occasional flurry of life in the treetops. 

Another fifteen minutes and the ground begins to level slightly, the track widening and the trees growing sparser. Hank stops abruptly at a bank of low, criss-crossing branches, where the remainder of the road is just visible below, winding on through the trunks.

“Through here,” Hank says, one hand pulling aside the foliage so that they can pass. Niles goes first, and Connor can hear his brother’s tight gasp of amazement before he reaches the viewpoint himself. 

The rocky path has flattened out into a jagged edged bank of dark stone, which leads out to a sharp cliff. And beyond the precipice, Connor wonders if he might be able to see the entirety of the world.

Blue ridges and grey rocks stretch out as far as the eye can see, each one cutting a smooth, unbroken line against the sky. The dull morning has cleared to a pale afternoon, watery blue skies and light clouds, pulled narrow across the surface of the heavens. Occasionally, the sunlight catches on the river, buried like secret silver veins, pumping its life underneath the trees. 

Connor walks out to join Niles, and they stand together, shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the world.

A few minutes pass before Hank comes to join them, moving beside Connor and giving a long, heavy exhale as he looks out at the view. Their elbows brush. It takes Connor a concerted effort to stop himself from sinking in against Hank’s broad form and leaning his head against his shoulder. 

Silence falls over the three of them. There are a few other hikers visible along the ridge, but as far as Connor is aware, they pay each other no mind. In the distance, a flock of birds rises from the canopy of trees and takes flight into the sky. Tiny black dots wheel against the endless expanse. 

It is Hank who finally breaks the silence.

“You wanna head back?”

For a moment, Connor wonders if he might get away with telling them both that he’d rather stay here—forever, if possible, a place where all his selfish bravery and careless actions have condensed down into nothingness. Just for a flickering moment, a brief, quiet spark.

“That sounds like a good idea.”

It’s Niles who speaks, a little way behind him. He has already averted his eyes from the view and is partway towards the path that leads back into the forest. Hank follows him, untying Sumo’s leash from the trunk where he had looped it, presumably to keep the dog away from the edge. 

“Your Highness?” 

Hank’s eyes reflect the sky. 

“Yes,” Connor replies. “I’m coming.”

The walk back to the cabin seems much shorter. Connor’s unsure if it’s simply because that’s the way time passes when you are travelling a familiar route, or whether it’s because Niles has taken the lead—with his eidetic memory and runner’s lungs—and he is able to lead them along exactly the same route at twice the speed. By the time they get back to the house, Connor’s breath is coming fast and shallow, the mountain landscape no more than a buried, frustrated memory. 

Sumo flops down at Hank’s feet, panting. 

“Thank you for the guidance, Mr President,” Niles says. He doesn't shake Hank’s hand. There is a high, pink glow in his cheeks. “It was very helpful.”

“Reckon you could’ve held your own, Your Majesty.” 

Hank leans down to unclip Sumo’s leash and the dog pads lazily over to the President’s car. Hank’s aide—who has been sitting waiting, drinking coffee from a flask and reading the well-thumbed paperback on the dashboard—climbs out and gives Sumo a pat on his side.

“All the same, I’m glad to help.” Hank flashes Niles a loose, broad grin, and Niles just about reciprocates, tight and emotionless. 

“Are you driving back to Washington now?” he asks, his voice icy. 

This is that pushy, if not entirely intentional, impoliteness that has earned Niles his numerous glacial titles. Connor watches as Hank’s expression slips a millimetre out of his jovial smile, and the tiny change makes Connor’s chest feel heavy. He doesn’t want to leave. Connor doesn’t want him to leave. When he turns to go, that insurmountable wedge of distance and duty will be driven between them once again.

“Well.” Hank’s tone is matter-of-fact and forcibly bright. “I guess we should get on the road.”

“Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?” Connor practically blurts out. Thankfully, he manages to keep his tone smooth and attentive, rather than a desperate rush of words. 

Hank gives a grateful nod in response, and Niles shoots Connor a look that says, quite plainly, _What on earth do you think you’re doing?_

Connor leads them inside and sets about making a pot of coffee. He considers joking about Niles’ poor attempt at making coffee that morning, but in the end he decides against it—the entirely unprofessional and unheard of act of inviting people in for a drink before they embark on a two hour drive will have ruffled his brother’s feathers quite enough.

Despite Connor’s best attempts to put off the inevitable, Hank and his aide stay for only twenty minutes longer. They drink their coffee, wash up, have a brief and courteous discussion about the other routes they could take around the park. And then they leave. 

As they shake hands, Connor feels like Hank’s fist is closing around his heart. 

He stands at the front window for as long as he can while they drive away, watching Sumo’s shadow through the back windscreen, thinking about how Hank’s skin smells, about the warmth of his chest. Too soon, their SUV disappears into the trees, and Connor’s heartbeat begins to fall back towards something like normal. 

If he had expected Niles to berate him for his behaviour, he gets nothing of the sort. His brother is sitting at the foot of the stairs, removing his shoes. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” he says curtly. He’s clearly brooding over something, and no doubt Connor will hear about his _unroyal_ actions later in the evening.

“Okay,” Connor replies. “Let me know when you’re done.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon apart. Niles shuts himself in his bedroom once he’s showered, no doubt to finish one of the tomes that he has brought along with him, or to stick his phone out of the window until he has enough service to find someone to complain to about the President's indiscretions. Connor makes a sandwich and eats it standing at the kitchen counter; he sits out on the porch and watches as flocks of black ducks take flight over the river. The sky pales and the light turns golden.

At six o’ clock, Connor knocks on Niles’ bedroom door.

“Niles?”

There’s no reply.

“I’m going to make dinner, if you’re interested.”

A beat passes, and then the door creaks open. Niles looks slightly dazed, and Connor wonders if he’s been sleeping, dozing on the rumpled sheets of the single bed. 

“Thank you.” Niles nods. He’s wearing a threadbare London Marathon tshirt. The loose stitching at the collar is making a hole above his clavicle. “I’ll come down in a minute.”

Connor makes them a simple dinner—pasta with sauce from a jar—because for all his assertions that he’s an independent being, his first eighteen years living between the walls of the palace did not equip him with a huge number of transferable life skills. They eat quietly at the round table in the kitchen, with their plates placed on either side of Niles’ neatly folded maps. 

Niles seems tired and irritable and Connor knows better than to force a conversation on him when he’s like this. He’s surprised, then, when they’ve washed up, and Niles follows him through the back doors to sit on the veranda, a large glass of red wine in his hand. 

Out on the deck sits a set of patio furniture—a table and two chairs, slightly rusted around the edges—and a drooping pot plant. Before taking a seat, Niles passes one of its leaves between his fingers, his expression disparaging.

Beyond the wooden railings, the trees are bathed in the evening sunlight, the remnants of the golden hours turning hazy and purple around the edges. The river glows dark blue; its flow almost seems to have stopped completely in the dusky quiet. In the trees, the crickets sing their evening song. 

“Connor.”

Connor had not expected his brother to speak very much, if at all, and certainly not to start up a conversation. His throat grows tight and he doesn’t know why. 

“Niles?”

Niles waits for a long moment before speaking again. As he talks, he keeps his gaze focused out over the water. Connor watches his profile, angular and endlessly calm, as perfect as the image of him that is printed on their country’s postage stamps.

“I was going to wait until we got home to talk to you about this,” he continues, “I was going to do it properly.”

There’s a sudden swoop in Connor’s stomach. He can taste his own heartbeat, acrid and coarse. Possibilities swirl through him—the things that Niles might know, the things that Connor might have done. And between them all, burning like the sun, _Hank_ and the greatest indiscretion of all.

“I was going to do it properly,” Niles repeats. His hands are white knuckled on the arm of his chair. His voice is very steady, forced emotionless, forced calm. “But after today…”

There’s a pause, and Connor takes in a single, shaking breath. Niles’ next words strike him like a hammerblow to the chest.

“You. And him.”

_Oh, God._

Connor’s brain goes blank for a moment, his whole body suddenly flooding ice cold. He knows. That blazing, secret sun shines white hot before Connor’s eyes, and he wonders for a moment whether he might just pass out. Niles knows. 

Should Connor be honest? Throw himself on his brother’s mercy and plead for forgiveness?

Some part of him says no. That’s stupid. You’re killing yourself and then Hank if you dare to do that. Some part of him, deep seeded and primally protective, tells him to lie as far as he can—a shield up against the danger and softness of being honest.

“Me and who?” Connor asks.

Niles rolls his eyes. Connor knows, then and there, that any amount of dishonesty or feigned ignorance is not going to work. Through whatever avenue of discovery, Niles has worked out the truth. And Connor is not going to be able to deny it. It feels like he’s on a ship with holes torn in its hull, sinking rapidly below roaring waves.

“President Anderson.” Niles spits the name, full of vitriol, like it’s been sitting at the tip of his tongue for longer than just the past few hours. “Please don’t lie to me, Connor.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Connor retorts. His voice shakes so badly that it would have betrayed him no matter Niles’ certainty on the matter.

“God, do I need to spell it out? Are you…” Niles pauses, searching for an appropriate word. In the quiet, Connor’s stomach turns several whirling somersaults. “... _Involved_. With the President?”

It’s an impersonal, barbed way of putting it and it makes Connor feel nauseous. But Niles is right. In whatever bizarre, reckless, foolhardy turn of events, he has become _involved_ with the President. The fucking President of the United States. And now he has to pay the price.

When Connor speaks, after what seems like the slowest minute of his life, his voice is very small. 

“How did you know?”

Niles scoffs. Finally, he turns to face Connor, and where he might hope to see a softness and a fraternal sympathy there is only hardness—as sharp and grey as slate. 

“I’m not stupid, Connor,” he snaps. “And I’m not blind.”

“Oh.”

It’s all that Connor can muster, with his tongue frozen somewhere behind his teeth. Niles’ gaze flays him, all-knowing and harsh, leaving him exposed.

“The way he looks at you,” Niles continues, turning his eyes towards the water once again. His mouth is a hard-set line. “Your voice when you talk about him.”

Connor wonders if he should apologise for his actions. Perhaps that would be no more than a gauze dressing on a heavily gushing wound.

“At first, I was just curious. I thought maybe he was gay,” Niles admits, and Connor remembers their highland dinner, how Niles had probed and pushed with questions about Hank’s marital status. “Which would have been fine, of course.”

Niles raises his glass to his lips before continuing.

“There are plenty of public figures who hide their sexuality.”

Connor realises, with a sharp twist in his gut, that Niles is talking about himself. 

He’s always known that Niles was gay. He’s always known it, even if it wasn’t spoken about. Ever since they were boys, ever since they were teenagers and Niles tacked up a picture of Prince Lucas Svensson of Sweden on the wall beside his bed. _I just think he’s a good prince,_ Niles had insisted. He had taken the picture down by the next morning.

Ever since, on an Amanda-mandated break from his university studies and staying with his family in the palace, Connor had found the photograph. He’d been rooting through Niles’ things for a spare comb when he came across it, a polaroid picture tucked into a box of cologne that he knew his brother didn’t wear. Niles—smiling, the shock of him really, genuinely smiling—with his face half-covered by his arm and his hair curling over his forehead. And next to him, presumably the one holding up the camera to take a picture, an unfamiliar man. Dark haired and dark eyed, with unmarred brown skin, grinning as he pressed a kiss to Niles’ cheek. Connor had slipped the photograph back into its hiding place and never mentioned it again. 

He knows his brother carries around this burden. It makes the aching inside him burn even deeper.

“But then…” Niles’ voice draws Connor from his musings, right back into the cold, hard present.  
“Did you get careless, Connor?” 

“Careless? No, we—”

“Did you get selfish?”

Niles bites down on the last word, his steely control slipping from his grasp. Like ice, melting beneath the sun.

“And then at the ranch, the pair of you disappeared—and you didn’t even think to do your shirt buttons up properly before you returned!” 

Niles’ voice is raised now, a dangerous heat rolling beneath his words, the kind of heat that sears Connor’s skin. Had he really been so stupid? Had he really been so wrapped up in Hank, in himself, that he hadn’t noticed something as obvious as a shirt button?

He listens, dumbfounded, as his brother continues. 

“And that _thing_ , under your collar—” Niles makes a scornful sound and Connor raises his fingers to his shoulder, where the purple bruise left behind by the passion of Hank’s teeth is slowly fading. “Did you think I wouldn't notice it? We’ve been living together for the past two weeks!”

His voice cracks at the end of his sentence, days and weeks of something that he’s been holding onto finally released out into the open. He takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out in a long, trembling exhale. Somewhere in the trees above them, a nightjar begins its chirruping call.

When Niles speaks again, his voice is very calm.

“You say his name in your sleep, Connor.” He sounds exhausted, helpless. “I heard you on the train. You say his name in your sleep.”

Guilt swells up inside Connor like a tidal wave. He shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, Niles,” he says, the only response that seems to come to his lips. “I’m sorry for all of this, I didn’t mean to—”

“ _Dieu et mon droit_ , Connor.” 

They both know those words, emblazoned above their current family crest, the insignia known across the entire world. _God and my right._ Niles sticks them like four sharp thorns into Connor’s soft, stupid heart.

“That’s what this is,” Niles continues, his tone even. He’s clearly furious, seeping and burning, cooled lava beneath the surface. “Our _right_. No one else on the earth has been gifted this right, and you’re going to ruin it all. You’re going to take it away from us. And for what?”

Connor knows the answer. He knows it before he realises it. He’s known it since that first night in the Lincoln bedroom, when he’d slept with the memory of Hank’s arms around him; since a cramped airplane bathroom and Hank’s lips at the back of his neck.

The words fall from his mouth before he can stop them. 

“For love.”

Niles’ gaze is as sharp as a whip. 

“You’re in love with him?”

That’s it, isn’t it? He loves Hank. _He’s in love with Hank._ He’s been in love with him for god knows how long and he’d been too busy with the secret mechanics of their relationship to work it out for himself. 

The thought is a stone that falls through him, a burning realisation. 

Niles rubs an exasperated hand over his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Connor.” 

It’s so dismissive that it catches underneath his heady rush of understanding and flips it, makes it suddenly barbed and vicious. Anger swells up beneath Connor’s softness and he turns his face sharply to his brother, his voice snapping.

“Oh? And what would you know about love?” 

He regrets the words as soon as they have left his mouth. Niles’ face turns even paler in the dying light, the purposeful set of his features leaking subtly into something so sad and quiet that it makes Connor want to take him in his arms.

“You think I don’t want to be loved?” Niles asks.

Connor had only really considered the selfishness of his actions on a world scale, the great shifting of an axis. Outside of himself and Hank, he had never thought about how individuals might be affected. 

He hates himself for it.

“You know what’s funny?” Niles asks, and Connor suspects that what he’s about to say is not going to be funny at all. “Mother and I have had this conversation. Many times. Only—” He gives a little laugh, shaky and uncharacteristic. “She normally says that part. _Don’t you want to be loved, Niles?_ ”

Connor’s brow furrows in confusion. “What?”

“Oh, Mother’s known about me for years. My… sexuality.” He speaks the word as if it weighs a tonne. “I suppose you know too.”

Connor nods, and Niles rubs his hand across his mouth. 

“I was never going to be able to hide it from you,” he continues, choosing each word with utmost care. “Mother’s been trying to convince me to do something about it. To come out—with her guidance, like you did.”

The confession renders Connor speechless. He’d suspected for the past few years that their mother was pressing down hard on Niles about something or other, but never in a million years would he have guessed it was this. If anything, he would have expected that their mother was convincing Niles to hide his sexuality, lest there be another scandal, one far higher profile, one far more difficult to manage. 

“We have a gay prince,” Connor says. “Why couldn’t—”

Niles cuts him off with an abrupt shake of his head. “I couldn’t do it.” He bows his head slightly as he looks out over the darkening river. “You don’t know what it’s like, Connor, to be accountable for a whole country. Mother doesn’t know either. There are certain things they expect of me. Perfection. Majesty. Not vulnerability and honesty and asking for acceptance. That’s not part of my duty.”

“Duty?” Connor repeats, disbelieving. “Niles, what about your duty to yourself?”

Niles shakes his head. “What I want comes second. It always has done; it always will.”

 _Duty._ Connor sighs. It is duty and dignity and deference that runs you ragged and miserable, but Connor senses that now—given the evening’s other revelations—is no time to argue the point further. 

Hank’s face surfaces in Connor’s mind with a sickening swoop, as he remembers. Despite Niles’ admissions of Amanda’s kindness, he doesn’t think the sudden bomb of her younger son’s clandestine relationship with the President of the United States will go down well at all.

“Are you going to tell Mother?” Connor asks. “About me and Hank?”

“About you and _Hank_?” Niles repeats, a derisive imitation of Connor’s fears. “My god, Connor, we’re not children anymore.”

It’s a sharpened, stern way of telling Connor that he’ll keep his secret. Any remaining anger that Connor had felt towards his brother rushes away on a grateful tide. 

They sit together in silence, an uncomfortable weight settled in between them. If there’s more to say, Connor doesn’t know how to say it. Below them, the river rushes on, coursing towards its destination, unaware that anything in the world has changed. In the tree, the nightjar continues to sing. 

“You should go to bed, Connor,” Niles says quietly. His long index finger runs around the base of his wine glass, the dark liquid hardly touched. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Connor gets slowly to his feet, feeling all the unsaid words—apologies, questions, platitudes—rattling around inside him. At the door back into the house, he turns, unable to stop one last thing from falling from his lips.

“Aren’t you going to tell me to stop?”

Niles doesn’t turn to face him. 

“Would you? If I did?”

Connor considers the question for a moment. He imagines being asked to stop seeing Hank completely, being asked to sever that golden, electric string that seems to bind them together.

“No.” It’s an honest reply. “I don’t think I would.”

_I don’t think I could._

“Well then.” Niles raises a hand—both dismissal and farewell. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Connor takes his time getting ready for bed, fully aware that the enormity of all that has been discussed this evening will take a while to sink in. Maybe in days, or weeks, he will understand it all. Maybe it will take longer than that. Maybe it will take forever. 

Guilt at his own selfishness nestles inside him like a hot coal, sadness for his brother resting right next to it. They jostle together, and alongside them falls a proud stone for his mother, in her cool, loving concern. And burning hottest of all—so bright that it sears his fingertips—that new, urgent understanding of what he feels for Hank.

When he finally manages to fall asleep, it is that which presses itself clearly into the lights swirling behind his eyelids. Connor is in love with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 9, or as i like to call it: road trip 2: fraternal anguish boogaloo!!
> 
> i really enjoyed writing this one, i hope you enjoyed reading it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Independence Day celebrations; there are plenty of fireworks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's a long one! get comfy, stay hydrated, and enjoy. 
> 
> as always, the hugest, most love-filled thank you to Bee for editing this with me.

It hurts Connor, not to tell Hank what Niles discovered. For the past months he has opened himself up to Hank like a book, bared his hidden secrets, his most creased, dogeared pages. And now? Now he has to close off this new chapter to him. The fact makes his stomach turn sharp and bitter, his body tense.

But it’s safer that way, it has to be. Niles had promised—in his own way, unspoken and cold—that he wouldn’t tell their secret, and Connor has no choice but to believe he will keep his promise. Worrying Hank would do none of them any good. At least that’s what he tells himself the next morning, his thumb hovering over the keypad of his phone, Hank’s name on the screen, a thousand possible confessions coursing through his head. 

In the end he slips the handset into the inside pocket of his jacket, leaving all messages unsent. 

Niles and Connor don’t speak on their journey home. As they pack up the cars to leave Shenandoah, low light and early morning mist, Niles doesn’t look like he’s slept a wink. His hair is swept back roughly from his face and his eyes are shadowed and puffy; he drinks a large mug of black coffee and refuses breakfast. Connor feels guilty for his few snatched hours of sleep, rocked and soothed by his thoughts of Hank. 

North joins them from her cabin, looking more comfortable now she’s changed back into her uniform of sleek black, with her tablet in hand.

“Was everything okay?” she asks, glancing between the pair of them. Connor wonders if she can sense the crackling tension, or if she even knows about the President’s surprise appearance the previous day. 

Just as Connor is opening his mouth to respond, Niles cuts in.

“I’ll brief you in the car,” Niles replies. 

North’s brow creases with annoyance and confusion, although she does not look entirely surprised by the king’s interruption. 

On the drive back into the city, Niles tells her all about the President’s unannounced presence—his level tone gives absolutely nothing away and Connor is endlessly grateful. North takes notes and, once they enter an area with consistent service, makes some short phone calls home and to the President’s team. 

The wait in Dulles International seems interminable, two long hours in an empty, air conditioned lounge. Press secretaries on both sides of the Atlantic are already putting a positive spin on the President’s unplanned visit to Shenandoah, citing it as a simple and casual engagement that demonstrates the determination of the Royals to modernise and step outside of their traditions. If anyone has any questions about Hank’s motivation, they leave them unasked.

When they’re finally on board the plane, North shows Connor a blog post featuring several slightly blurred photographs—presumably taken by one of the other hikers on the trail—and underneath them, a brief article written by a reporter back home.

“His visit was a bit unprecedented,” she says, flipping the tablet closed. “But it worked.”

“Do you think so?” Connor asks, and North nods in reply. 

“Definitely. Even without our intervention, there are plenty of positive public comments out there today. The President knows what he’s doing.”

Admiration for Hank and his sharp, progressive understanding of the world flickers up against the inside of Connor’s stomach. Admittedly, he had been worried that the unannounced nature of his visit might have looked suspicious to the outside world. But the world is changing. Hank’s candidness, his breaching of the stiff upper lip traditionalism, is appreciated by his onlookers.

Connor gives North a half smile and rolls his head back against the headrest. “Good to know.”

They land in Heathrow in the early hours of the following morning. The air is cool and sweet-smelling, as if the night before had brought a light rain, sprinkling the surrounding houses and flat land. It’s good to be home. He wishes Hank were with him. 

Once they have stepped out of the aircraft and onto English soil, Connor can see Niles’ shoulders relax. Just a touch, imperceptible to anyone else, but Connor knows that his brother will have been holding a tightly wound coil of tension inside him for weeks, since well before they departed for Los Angeles. It makes him glad to see that pressure lessen, even slightly.

They go their separate ways from the airport. Connor is disappointed not to have the chance to talk to Niles in private, face to face, to continue their conversation from the previous day and to come to a more solid resolution about the reality of their new situation. But at the same time, a bitter ripple of relief rolls through him. He’s tired. He doesn’t want to discuss duty and disclose secrets. He wants to go home and lie down in his own bed, undisturbed, for at least fourteen hours. 

North accompanies him on the car ride back to his Kensington townhouse, but he turns her away at the porch.

“Don’t you even think about asking to come inside and debrief,” he says, bracing his hand against the doorframe. 

She gives him a hard look, eyes narrowed. 

“Connor, it’s been a long trip, there’s plenty that needs to be discussed.”

“North, it’s been a long trip,” he replies, turning her words back against her. “I’m exhausted. It’s not even eight am. Can’t we do this tomorrow?”

 _Or in three weeks’ time?_ he thinks. 

North tilts her head to one side, clearly weighing up her duty to the Crown against her desire to rest. In the end, the latter wins out.

“Fine.” She turns to go, wheeling her suitcase behind her along the paving slabs. “Tomorrow, okay? Look after yourself.”

Connor nods—I’ll do my best. Honestly, he can’t see himself doing anything in the next twenty four hours other than sleeping and consuming media content utterly unrelated to himself and the monarchy.

Back in his house and finally alone, he wonders for a moment whether this would be the right time to call Niles. But the notion is fleeting, quickly swallowed by the fear of reexamining the rawness of his own guilt, the reality of his brother’s long-buried emotions. In the end, he kicks off his shoes and collapses onto his bed, fully clothed.

The next few weeks elicit little more than silence between the brothers. If Niles needs to contact Connor he does so via the palace, forwarded emails and messages from his staff. To begin with, the lack of contact stings. Although he and Niles aren’t exactly the most talkative of siblings, he misses their phone calls, Niles’ early morning texts that Connor would read over his first cup of coffee. And as much as he is loath to admit it, he misses Niles’ rooms in the palace, in all their eclectic, shining splendor. 

Connor reads about his brother in the papers, sees him on his phone and television screens. He’s working himself hard, entering into extra engagements, running numerous fundraisers and dinners in the palace. During the May bank holiday weekend, Niles conducts private talks with the Prime Minister, his first since the beginning of the year. The papers print a few rather favourable articles about his recent appointments, and Connor feels proud beneath his heartache.

Amanda doesn’t seem to notice any hostility between her sons, and if she does, she doesn’t mention it. Outpourings of awkward emotion have never been the norm in their family. She congratulates them separately on their successful stateside visit before promptly moving onto the next matter at hand, whatever that might be—her trip to Ireland, the morning’s headlines, their numerous invitations to aristocratic summer parties. Whatever discussion Niles and Amanda have had about the President, Connor’s secret has been kept. He swallows his nerves, tries to let his worry seep out over his skin, harmless and unnoticed by anyone else. 

As much as he hates to admit it, Connor’s hurt begins to lessen as the days pass, diluting his guilt. May runs on towards a hot and stormy June, and the sharp edge of Niles’ discovery wears itself smoother and smoother. Some mornings it’s not even the first thing he thinks about. Three weeks since their return home and he makes it until noon before he remembers what Niles knows. Even then it feels more like a sharp scratch in his ribcage, rather than a knife plunged directly through sternum and into his heart. 

What does remain is his love for Hank, burning on like a beacon. 

He folds his love up inside all their secret messages, which they still trade almost daily; he holds it close to his chest like a winning poker hand. Drawing strength from it makes his domestic duties just that little bit easier, but he doesn’t tell Hank that he loves him. Not yet. It feels empty, tapping the words out onto a keyboard and sending them into the impersonal ether, or hurriedly muttering them down a crackling phone line. 

The time to say it out loud will come, and he’s happy to wait for it. Until then, he guards his love like a flame, and lets it warm him.

Hank’s promised invitation arrives on the second day of June, almost a month before Connor is set to depart for Washington, DC: _Independence Day celebrations, from the third to the sixth of July, a room in the White House—the Lincoln Bedroom._ When he receives the paperwork, forwarded from the palace’s chief of staff, Connor’s heart gives a joyful leap into his throat. He’s been invited alongside a slew of young dignitaries from other countries—a pair of Scandinavian princes, the daughter of the Canadian Prime Minister. Popular and relevant, the future of their countries. It's a company that Connor would have felt honoured to have been a select part of, but right now, all he can think about is Hank’s bright blue eyes beneath his shadowed brow, the bulk of his body against Connor’s own.

One more month. He pushes the image to the back of his mind and sets about reading and signing the appropriate documents. The sight of Hank’s signature, familiar now, makes his stomach twist in excitement. 

June drips slowly through the hourglass, the days ticking by in an endless stream of garden parties and fundraisers and high-profile meetings at buildings all around the city. The summer months are some of the busiest for the family. Despite Connor’s crowded schedule, June drags its feet, refusing to turn into the dry heat of July.

On the last weekend of June, and with the turn of the month so deliciously close that he can practically taste it, Connor attends the last day of race meets at Royal Ascot, alongside his mother. A day in the royal box, half watching the horse races and half watching the crowds below, envious of their champagne-soaked revelry. 

There’s a certain uniform at these events, born of a conflicting desire to break sartorial rules but also to remain traditional, and Connor has always enjoyed challenging time-honoured fashions. It seems like a little breakout, an elegant rebellion. He dons the conventional top hat and a dove grey morning coat, pairing them with a pale purple waistcoat and tie, the colour of a lilac bud. The whole suit has a slimmer fit than that which the Royals would usually be seen in, and he feels he cuts a fine silhouette, sharp and modern. 

Amanda seems in good spirits, dressed to the nines in a buttercup yellow gown which makes her dark skin glow. She wears a matching hat on top of her fine braids, which have been shot through with delicate lines of gold, adorned with metal cuffs and glittering beads. A creamy yellow veil casts a slight, patchwork shadow across her eyes. 

As they sit and watch the initial parade of horses and their jockeys, her posture is relaxed, her jewelled hands folded neatly in her lap. Her fingernails are painted gold. 

“I’ve noticed a change in you, Connor,” Amanda says, her gaze focused out over the course. At her side, a narrow flute of champagne glitters, diamonds in the sunlight.

Although he expects what is coming next will be positive, Connor can’t help the bubble of nerves that rises in his throat, as dry and sharp as the champagne. 

“Oh?”

Amanda nods.

“This past year,” she continues, “you’ve seemed more focused, more confident. I’m proud of all that you’ve achieved.”

Praise from his mother is rare but never misplaced, and Connor has to swallow his emotion, reluctant to let it show on his face. Their box seems relatively private, but he knows that any cameras below will be consistently trained upon them, looking for anything more interesting than benign smiles and civil conversation.

“Thank you,” he replies, simple and gracious. 

“Of course.” On the grounds, one of the announcers raises a hand to introduce last year’s victorious pair and Amanda applauds politely. “Ever since Niles sent you to the United States to meet with the President. To be quite honest, I thought it a fool’s errand—President Anderson’s ideals were not worth our family’s time. But you proved me wrong.”

She reaches over and places her hand on top of Connor’s own.

“Your actions have shaped the future of our institution.”

Connor bows his head slightly, doing his best to look humbled by her words. 

_You have no idea, Mother. You have no idea._

* * *

With a final wave of sunny days, June becomes July. 

Before Connor knows it, he finds himself back in the first class lounge of London Heathrow’s second terminal. All the long days and weeks of waiting behind him, nothing more than a memory, almost forgotten. Whenever he feels that familiar flicker of guilt curl up inside him, the thought of seeing Hank spreads out over it like a flood, an emptied thundercloud.

He sits with his team for an hour, watching the same fifteen minutes of news reports repeating on one of the televisions mounted to the wall. Just as the main headlines start to play out for a fifth time, North comes to sit beside him, a bundle of paperwork clutched to her chest. She seems flustered, in her own particular way—a single strand of red hair has escaped her plait and curled out over her left ear.

“The flight is delayed,” she says, her tone serious. “I’m sorry.”

It’s not the kind of news that would normally upset Connor. He’s used to delays in travel plans, waiting around for events to begin and for special arrangements to be made. His normal reaction would be to find the nearest newspaper and attempt to complete the crossword.

Today, though, he can’t stop the hot blister of nerves that rises up inside him. He’s read their itinerary, more than once, in fact. They have dinner planned at the White House that evening. This flight was booked especially to accommodate, and the timing is military-precise. 

“By how much?” he asks. He tries to keep his tone as casual as possible. 

“At the least…” North checks one of the papers in front of her, a handwritten scribble that is not her own. “Two hours, two hours ten.”

“So?” Connor doesn’t allow any panic to weave itself into his voice. “What happens when we get stateside?” 

North gives a tight little shrug, as if she’s trying to emulate some of the same calmness that Connor is showing. 

“I’ve contacted President Anderson’s team. They’ll stall pre-dinner speeches and cocktails as long as they can, but it looks like you might be getting ready for dinner in an airplane bathroom.”

Connor laughs at that, and he likes to think that his amusement placates North somewhat. 

“Well,” he says, “that’ll be a first.”

In the end, North’s predictions are absolutely correct. Connor isn’t surprised. Their plane is delayed for two hours and five minutes, and Connor’s dinner suit gets pulled out of the hold before takeoff so that he can dress himself in the cramped bathroom. 

He feels a little ridiculous, walking out of the airplane in his finery—a single-breasted suit in a rich, petrol blue fabric, a narrow navy tie and a white shirt embossed with subtle florals. Not to mention the fact that he’s pretty sure it’ll take him two minutes to sweat through the back of his jacket on the searing Dulles’ tarmac. Even the evening heat is oppressive, making Connor’s starched collar stick to the sides of his neck. 

As they make the drive over the Potomac towards the Capitol, the fine white form of the Washington Monument is already lit up on the familiar skyline. It’s like a compass needle, a single bright marker stuck into the map. A morning star, guiding Connor home. 

North’s anxieties are palpable as they approach the White House. She keeps her phone glued to her ear, giving out curt orders and asking sharp questions to ensure that Connor’s arrival is both safe and appropriate. Cocktails in the Red Room are already underway, from the sounds of it, and the guests are getting anxious for the arrival of their final diner. 

“Your mother won’t be happy with me,” North says, lowering her handset for the first time in the past ten minutes. 

“North, honestly—what could you have done about this?” Connor asks. In his own impatience, it comes out slightly sharp, and North looks taken aback. “Sorry.” He raises an apologetic hand. “It’s just… This isn’t your fault, any of it. Mother won’t be angry with you for not being able to control international flight plans.”

North doesn’t look at all convinced, but she gives him a taut smile before she sets about tapping yet another number into her phone.

By the time they pull up to the White House, they are, by North’s exacting account, an hour and thirty-seven minutes late. Their car drops them right outside the north doors, the white pillared portico, and two of Hank’s aides are waiting to receive him. It all feels rather clandestine, like Connor is being ushered into some secret convention under the cover of darkness, trying to make the least fuss possible. A far cry from the grand entrances that he’s used to.

North and the rest of Connor’s small security team stay behind with the cars. She gives him a look bordering on plaintive as he steps out onto the driveway, and Connor knows how much she would love to follow him and see his late arrival plan to its completion.

By the time they make it through the entrance hall and into the Red Room, it’s empty. There are a few members of staff collecting glasses and clearing tables, signs that guests were here, soaking in quiet conversation between the sumptuous scarlet walls. The aides glance at each other. 

“This way please, Your Highness.” 

One of the aides steps forward, heading for a door in the far corner of the room. Connor recognises him from his first visit to the White House—Jerry, he thinks—then trembling in the presence of royalty, now confident, more than a year in the President’s employ. Good for him. 

The door inches open and Connor steps through, letting it click shut silently behind him. He knows this room from his first visit too, the State Dining Room, although it is dressed up far more intimately than the last time he had seen it, with just one white table running down the length of the space. The seated guests don’t turn to look at him as he enters. It is very quiet, all pre-dinner conversation hushed. 

Just one voice sounds. Something else that is familiar—no, more than familiar, resonant, powerful, compelling. He’s sure he will remember that voice as long as he lives, he’s sure that he will carry it to whatever ends of the earth his duty pulls him to. Nestled like a secret, kept like a jewel.

Hank.

He’s the only other person standing. A softness of recognition colours the blue of his gaze as his eyes coast to find Connor’s own—and their gazes meet. It is as steady as a hand raised to cup his jaw. Connor is certain that he sees Hank’s fingers twitch on the stem of his champagne glass. Aching to reach across the distance, perhaps, to halt his diplomatic obligation and brace a hand against Connor’s shoulder, pulling him in close. Connor allows himself that flight of fancy, that glistening, spiralling image of kissing Hank’s mouth in front of everyone.

“Once again, thank you for joining me this evening.” 

Hank continues his speech, pulling his eyes away from Connor’s own. The snap of their eye contact empties Connor like a flood, and he releases a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding. 

“Take a seat, please, Your Highness.” 

Unnoticed, Jerry has entered the door behind Connor, and he pulls out the chair at the short end of the rectangular table. From this seat, Connor can see Hank perfectly, seated at the opposite end of the room, but he will not be able to speak to him. The thought makes something sharp and delicious turn inside his chest, a drawn out longing, stretching the delayed gratification of speaking to Hank into something that hurts. So close, yet so far away.

“Here’s to the future,” Hank says, raising his glass. Those gathered at the table do the same. “Here’s to the futures of our many great nations. And here’s to the future of all people. Unified, equal.”

Around the room, voices rise to echo Hank’s sentiments. It’s been a long time since Connor saw Hank speak in such an official capacity, and he had almost forgotten—almost, for how could it release its grip on the very corners of his mind?—what an impressive and engaging speaker Hank is. The reminder is piercing, like a ray of sunlight through a high window.

Across the table, Hank meets Connor’s eyes once again, and Connor lifts his glass. _To the future._ Each word resounds within him. 

Dinner is a fine affair, nothing like the homestyle barbeque that Hank had hosted back in Texas. Flat, gold-rimmed plates of food are adorned with intricate garnishes, bouquets of delicate micro herbs on top of finely diced steak tartare, long curls of dark chocolate beside the decadent dessert. It’s impressive, showy. As Connor discusses the merits of the European Union with a Swedish prince, he enjoys the secret image of Hank in his short sleeves beneath the baking Southern sun.

Once the last plates and cups have been cleared away, and a sleepy, post-dinner conversation has settled over the diners, Hank gets to his feet once again.

“I hope you enjoyed tonight’s food.” Noises of assent flutter out over the table. “Although not all of you will be staying at the White House tonight, I’d like to invite all of you back tomorrow before the evening’s fireworks on the Mall. You are welcome to use all of the House’s facilities.”

The guests look around gratefully, as if what Hank says is a surprise, as if they haven’t been briefed of this exact invitation by all of their separate security teams. Connor knows—from the detailed itineraries as well as his own research—that the White House has a basketball court, a bowling alley, a movie theatre. More, even. He wonders where Hank will be spending his day, and how best he can fix it so that they can spend it together.

With champagne-loosened smiles and polite farewells, the dignitaries begin to file out of the dining room. Hank waits at the door, making sure to shake each guest by hand, to ask them how they have enjoyed their stay so far, to bid them a good night. Under normal circumstances, Connor would be impressed with the little extra effort that the President was putting in. 

Under these circumstances, he can’t wait to have Hank close to him. He can’t wait to touch him again.

Seated furthest from the main door, Connor is the last person to speak to Hank. His heart rattles impatiently in his chest, faster and faster until the last guest has left for their waiting car.

“Your Highness.”

God, it feels good to hear his voice again. That low, gravelly bass that takes hold of Connor and pulls him as tight as a bowstring. 

“Mr President,” Connor replies. “Let me apologise for my late arrival.”

Hank’s palm is warm as he clasps Connor’s hand in his own. How Connor wishes he would raise it to his mouth and brush his lips over his knuckles. 

“It’s not a problem. Although,” Hank lowers his voice a touch, falsely conspiratorial, “we were worried for a moment that you weren’t going to make it all.”

He laughs at that, hearty and carefree, a host making a lighthearted joke with one of his guests. Connor knows that the impersonal use of we is a pointed one, performative for the sake of those few staff members who are still milling about. Hank was worried about him. He was worried that they might not get to see each other at all. 

“So, the Lincoln Bedroom is all arranged for you,” Hank continues, “that was where you stayed last time, wasn’t it?”

As if Hank could have forgotten. It’s another private code, hidden behind public pleasantries— _I’ll come to you. I’ll find you._

Connor nods. “Yes, thank you.”

“Alright then.” Hank’s eyes don’t leave Connor’s own, and it makes Connor breathless. “Have a good night, Your Highness.”

“And you, Mr President.”

With that, one of Hank’s assistants appears at his side to escort Connor to the upper floors of the house. Speaking to Hank like that, staid and professional, for the first time in two aching months, acts like a spark on the soft kindling of Connor’s heart. He had kept himself controlled, managed and guarded his desires with practised skill, but now want floods through him like wildfire.

The hours waiting in his bedroom are excruciating. He unpacks a few of his clothes, reads a long email from North, who is staying with some of the other security teams in the President’s guest house. He listens to his own breathing and his own frantic heartbeat.

Ten o’clock passes, and eleven edges nearer. 

To him, fresh off the plane, he knows it should feel like the early hours of the morning, but he doesn't feel tired. Jetlag is drowned out by adrenaline, by the coursing promise of arousal. He looks out of the tall, arched window, down at the darkening gardens and the tops of the thick trees, at the streaming white light of traffic on the faraway road. He wonders what is keeping Hank so long and so late.

For a moment, he considers the possibility of leaving the bedroom and heading blindly into the corridors of the White House. Would he be able to trace those same steps that he first took almost a year ago, guided towards a polite breakfast with the weight of a kiss on his shoulders? Would some instinct guide him to Hank’s side? He doubts it. 

Still in his dinner suit, he stands and turns it all over in his mind. He weighs up the perils of getting lost in the corridors against the thought of not seeing Hank tonight. 

The former wins out—because of course it does, Connor knows himself well enough now to expect that—drawing him to the door of his bedroom, his fingers hovering over the handle. In his head, he runs through restless, half-formed directions to Hank’s side: a turn here, a passage there, then, the white door of the Presidential Suite. 

All his imaginings are fruitless though, because as soon as his fingers reach the metal of the handle, there is a soft knock against the wood. The sound, sudden and inches from his face, makes him start. A quick intake of breath shudders through him, high in his chest. Despite all his impatience, he’s nervous.

Connor takes a step back.

“Come in.”

His voice sounds reedy and weak in his own head. With barely a sound, the door swings open.

What had he expected at this hour? A security detail, come to guide him? Come to reprimand him?

All his worries dispel in a shaky rush. Hank is standing in the doorway. He’s alone, and his expression is as soft as Connor has ever seen it. No longer in his dinner suit—it was that same impressively casual navy that Connor remembers from once upon a time—he’s changed into a t-shirt and a pair of dark red pyjama trousers, silken and patterned in scarlet paisley. With a squeezing feeling in his chest, Connor notices that he is wearing a pair of slippers on his feet.

“Hello.” Hank sounds confused, his voice raising at the end as if in question. His brow furrows.

“Hello,” Connor replies, and then, noting Hank’s expression, he adds, “what? What is it?” 

“You’re still in your dinner clothes,” Hank answers. Connor glances down at himself—he’d almost forgotten that he was dressed in exactly what he’d arrived in, right down to his jacket and shoes. 

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

Hank laughs quietly at that, at Connor’s reserve and his twitching fingers. Then he steps into the room and closes the door behind him.

Silence strings itself between them, shimmering golden in the air, broken only by the sound of their quickening breath. And surely, surely, Hank must be able to hear the sound of Connor’s heart, a bird’s wings beating in his ribcage. 

Hank makes the first move. Connor is glad of it. He feels frozen to the spot by the enormity of being alone in Hank’s presence again. 

Big hands hook sharply beneath the lapels of Connor’s jacket, pushing it away from his shoulders. The contact makes Connor’s breath catch in his throat, a sharp gasp, almost shameful in its urgency. He had forgotten how it felt to be touched like this, with driving purpose and pointed intent—a memory of that highland bedroom, when Hank had laid Connor out like a prize, like a feast, and taken all that he was owed.

Hank’s voice comes out in a growl, his mouth so close to Connor’s ear that it sends shivers through him, making all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“Why are you still all dressed up?”

“I—” Connor lowers his gaze. He’s ashamed of his doubts, his worries that Hank wouldn’t appear at his door at all. It feels bitter to voice them now, with Hank’s lips ghosting along the fine twist of his neck. “I thought maybe you weren’t coming. That—That I’d have to go and find you.” 

He wonders if Hank will feel betrayed by his mistrust. 

Nothing of the sort. Connor can feel Hank smile against his skin, and there’s a little sadness in his expression, although none of it is directed towards Connor. 

“Connor, baby.” He knows how Connor likes that. The words thrum through him like liquor, intoxicating, sparkling. “You know I’d come for you no matter what.”

“I know.”

And he does know. All his anxieties—that a relationship must shake like a storm in order to survive, but that his position might leave him alone in the end, no matter what—rattle inside him like pebbles in shifting sand. They have nothing to do with Hank, at the end of it all. Hank, who is a steady presence in Connor’s life, who Connor trusts and loves so implicitly.

“I know, Hank.” 

They surge together, their mouths meeting. Connor kisses him fiercely, as if he’s drowning or starved or abandoned and Hank is the only thing left in the whole world to save him. It’s true, in a strange, roundabout way. He drags his fingers through Hank’s hair, tugs at the hem of Hank’s t-shirt. He kisses him until he is wild with it. 

“Connor, hey. Hey.” Hank’s hands slow at Connor’s back, one flat palm brushing the length of his spine. “You okay?”

“I just missed you.” Connor’s voice is weak at the edges, and the steady hum of arousal is throbbing in his gut.

Hank smiles—deep lines by his eyes and that little gap between his teeth. He presses a kiss to Connor’s temple.

“I missed you.” Hank traces the line of Connor’s jaw with his finger. “We’ve got all night, y’know. Let me take care of you.”

It was what Hank had promised, in that sun soaked top bedroom, with the misty Houston skyline in the distance. Connor’s knees are suddenly weak, and he’s glad for Hank’s solid arm at his waist.

“Okay,” Connor concedes. “Okay.”

They take their time. Hank undresses Connor first, so slowly and so carefully that Connor wonders whether he might just shake apart beneath the electric brush of Hank’s fingertips. He is so eager to return the favour, and when he does, he takes long, sweet moments to marvel at Hank’s body. The way his tattoo swoops over his chest, the silvery pattern of hair darkening at the curve of his belly. His thick cock, more than half-hard, enough to make Connor’s mouth water. 

Hank lays Connor out on the bed, on those sheets lined with sunbeams, and he kisses every inch of him. He kisses him until Connor can see stars bloom behind his eyelids, until the universe starts to turn on the ceiling above him. From one of his pockets, Hank pulls out a tiny, nondescript bottle, and pours some of its contents into his palm. With one slick finger, then two, Hank gently stretches Connor open, swallowing every one of his gasps with an eager mouth. 

“Hank.” Connor twists his head against the sheets. Hank’s spare hand rests on his knee. He feels exposed, vulnerable, like a dam fit to burst. “Hank, please.”

“I’ve got you.”

Hank gives himself a few firm strokes, his gaze never leaving Connor’s body. The intensity prickles on Connor’s skin and his hips buck up, away from the covers.

“Connor.” Hank says his name with such gentle firmness that Connor stills beneath it. And then again, like a heartbeat—“I’ve got you.”

And he slides home, inch by perfect, burning inch. Connor’s body clenches, that slow drag inside sending waves of pleasure soaring through him until he’s worried he might just come undone right there and then. With each steady thrust, Hank watches him. He regards him with such careful attention that Connor has to screw his eyes shut, burying his face in the crook of his own arm. 

_I love you,_ he thinks. _I love you._ Those three words, golden and impossible, loud behind his eyes. They build inside him, becoming his breath; they build inside him until they’re all that’s left.

 _I love you,_ Connor thinks, and he doesn’t say it. 

Hank rolls his hips a few more times, his rhythm fast falling out of the steady pace that he had started off with. He puts his mouth in the space above Connor’s shoulder and presses his teeth into Connor’s skin. A rough moan shudders through Hank’s chest, and he kisses away the thin sheen of sweat gathered over Connor’s collarbones. 

Perhaps Hank speaks words against the soft hollow of Connor’s throat. Or perhaps he is speechless, just grunts and gasps, pleasure rolling so acute and tight within him that there is little room for anything else. 

Connor speaks Hank’s name into the darkness and Hank brings their mouths to meet. They fit together perfectly, two fates fallen into place. 

When Connor comes, it is with Hank’s hand wrapped roughly around him and a breathless plea on his lips. The sight makes Hank’s hips stutter and he spills into Connor with a shout, barely stifled against his own fist. 

They stay like that for a long moment, heartbeat to heartbeat, listening to their intertwined breathing growing slow and steady. Connor never wants Hank to pull out, and when he does, Connor is a little ashamed of the disappointed noise that leaves his throat. Hank grins.

“You want me to stay?” Hank asks. The question has connotations far wider than sex. For the time being, Connor chooses to ignore them. 

“It wouldn’t be very practical,” Connor replies, stretching out against the covers. His limbs feel light, bright with the memory of release. 

“No, not really.” Hank strokes his hand up Connor’s side, his fingertips connecting with the constellation of freckles that marks Connor’s ribs. 

They clean up slowly. Connor watches blatantly as Hank wanders naked to the ensuite bathroom to fetch a washcloth—the impressive, vulnerable figure that he cuts in the half-light. As Hank pulls his t-shirt on, Connor can’t help the sharp pang that slices through him. He knows it’s not worth asking him to stay. He knows he’s going to regret words left unsaid. 

They kiss before Hank leaves—Connor curled naked across Hank’s lap. Were it not for the late hour on the clock and the knowledge of all their engagements the following day, Connor would have slipped his hand beneath the waistband of Hank’s pyjamas and run his teeth along the softness of his bottom lip. But they have to part some time, as bitter as it may be.

“Can I come to you tomorrow night?” Connor asks, as they stand before the closed door.

Hank cocks an eyebrow. “You sure? I don’t mind—”

Connor shakes his head.

“I want to see your bedroom.”

Hank looks touched by Connor’s sentimentality. He nods, and enumerates a few brief directions that would lead to Connor to his door. As he speaks, he uses one finger to trace the steps in the palm of Connor’s hand. 

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Connor asks, his fingers toying at the neckline of Hank’s shirt.

“In the day?” Hank asks and Connor nods in response. “Connor, baby. It would be too dangerous in the day.”

“I know,” Connor says, and he knows that his voice snaps in disappointment. “I just—” And perhaps it’s pathetic, now, to admit it at all. “I just want to see you.”

“I don’t know yet.” Hank cups Connor’s jaw in one hand. “I know we’ll be running films in the Family Theater most of the day. We could sit together.”

Connor’s heart flutters at the image—an adolescent memory that he doesn’t have, stolen kisses, a hand on his knee in the dark.

“How romantic.”

Hank smiles. “I hope so.”

“You should go,” Connor says, pushing the words out before they are replaced by something else. Before he asks Hank to stay. 

Hank nods in regretful agreement. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” Connor wraps his arm momentarily around Hank’s waist and then does his best to remember to let go.

Hank turns to leave, closing the door behind him. In the heavy silence, Connor leans his forehead up against the wood, still warm from the broad spread of Hank’s shoulders.

It takes him a while to fall asleep. When he does, his dreams are wild and fitful—bright glazes of colour spread across his vision, fireworks bursting behind his eyes. Hank’s hand resting at the small of his back and staying there, a guiding presence no matter where Connor finds himself. Hank is there, no matter where his feet tread. 

A sharp sound pierces through his veil of sleep. 

For a moment, Connor cannot remember where he is. Disoriented and groggy, it takes him a while to pull himself from the dreamy depths and locate himself—the bedroom of his Kensington home? His childhood bedroom in the palace?

The sound comes again, louder and more urgent. Connor hangs onto it and uses it to orient himself.

The Lincoln Bedroom. Of course. Golden banded sheets and Hank’s hands all over his body. 

It’s morning, he surmises, and that sound is someone knocking on the door. As much as he would like to, he cannot lie here all day and relive, over and over, the events of the previous evening.

Connor doesn’t recognise the staff member who greets him in the doorway—patiently waiting and then wide eyed at the sight of a prince in sleepy disarray. They present him with a pot of coffee on a silver tray, for which Connor is endlessly grateful, and an invitation to join the President and the other guests for breakfast in half an hour. 

He takes a shower, letting the water run just a little too hot over his skin, remembering all the places that Hank touched him. All the places where his teeth sank in. When he dresses, he dresses for the white July sun: pale linens and a cotton shirt, with his hair swept back away from his face.

Breakfast is served in one of the oval rooms at the back of the house, dark blue furnishings and morning light streaming in through the windows. The atmosphere is one of friendly professionalism, relaxed enough at first sight, but tight and controlled at its centre. Each guest in attendance is fully aware that they have a job to do, an impression to make.

Hank is already seated when Connor arrives, talking to the dark-haired daughter of the Canadian Prime Minister, a half-eaten plate of eggs and toast on the table before him. He meets Connor’s gaze briefly—fingers sliding in between Connor’s ribs to tap up against his heart—but it’s not the time to interrupt. They steal glances over the coffee cups and platters of fresh fruit and Connor wishes that he had told Hank everything. 

The morning is warm, glimmering with the promise of a higher heat. They start with a tour of the grounds, walking alongside the sloping lawns and half-ignoring the crowds of interested onlookers gathered behind the wire perimeter fence. Aside from the usual tourists, there are a few stations of people who look far more expert—long-lense cameras, folding chairs, coffee cups. The loud clicking of shutters is evident even from a hundred feet away. Pictures of their tour will no doubt appear in several of tomorrow’s publications, and Connor does his best to look calm and professional. 

He does his best not to look at Hank too much in earnest. It’s tough, though. The faultless way he commands their party, the way he holds the rapt attention of so many important people, is enough to make Connor turn positively doe-eyed. Hank is wearing a light grey suit and a white shirt with the first two buttons undone. No tie. It’s entirely acceptable, perhaps even too much for the encroaching noon heat, but Connor can’t help but transfix on the single freckle at his collarbone. 

“Please enjoy the grounds and the house today. Staff will be around to help you out.” Hank punctuates his words with a sweeping gesture out to those assembled. Connor can feel the security teams prickling with nerves at the thought of leaving their wards to roam freely throughout the expanses of a mostly unfamiliar property. 

It feels strange to be presented with so much freedom. Normally these kinds of events have a tightly planned schedule, everyone shifted, cattle-like, from event to event until the close of the day and a long bank of shiny cars waiting on a driveway. Naturally, everything has been impeccably manufactured within this appearance of informality: an organised tour of the rose gardens, games on the sunny basketball court. The timetable for the films being shown in the in-house cinema. Connor pays eager attention to that part. 

With the guests filtering off into different parts of the grounds, led by Hank’s sharply dressed staff, Connor lingers on the lawn. He chats idly with his dinner companion from the night before and watches Hank as he makes his rounds, shaking hands, asking questions. He leaves Connor’s conversation until almost last. It’s a sensible move, but the waiting makes Connor’s heart feel several sizes too big. 

Finally, Hank finds his way to Connor’s side. 

“How are you going to spend the day, Your Highness?” he asks, a question that he’s clearly repeated over and over this morning.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Connor replies, a lie. “What would you suggest, Mr President?”

“We’re playing _True Grit_ in the Family Theater at twelve,” Hank says. “One of my favourites.”

“Oh, well.” Connor pretends to contemplate the offer, well aware of the other guests within earshot. “I’m sure the day is too nice to spend inside.”

Hank nods, catching the double meaning behind Connor’s uncertainty. A ploy, a diversion for anyone apart from them. “You might be right.”

“My mother grows roses,” Connor continues. “Perhaps I’ll brush up in the rose garden.”

“Good idea.”

Pleasant and noncommittal. Hank smiles graciously before turning towards the final group of dignitaries, who are standing together and pointing down the lawn towards the white spire of the Washington monument. 

Connor manages to shake any remaining company before twelve. A young aide, blond and bright-eyed, leads him through the corridors to the Family Theater. 

“I think you’ll be the only one in there, Your Highness,” they comment, opening the door for him.

“That’s alright,” Connor says. “I’ll be glad for the quiet.” As if to apologise for his candidness, he punctuates his admission with a sheepish shrug. The return is a polite smile, an insistence that he enjoy himself, and the sound of the door closing quietly behind him. 

Alone in the dark, Connor finds his way through the low-lit aisles to the middle row of plush, dark red chairs. A single establishing shot glows on the screen—rolling green hills dotted with boxy brown farmhouses, a grey mountain rising in the distance. Connor is barely paying attention. His eyes keep wandering over to the entrance, waiting for the door to swing open and cast a broad beam of light across the floor. 

Time ticks on. Despite his nerves, tightening up inside him like a steam pressure gauge, he doesn’t let himself entertain the idea that Hank will not show. He remembers his promise from the previous evening.

_You know I’d come for you no matter what._

Connor folds his hands in his lap and watches as two horse thieves look down the long silver barrel of a well-poised rifle.

Twenty minutes in, with Connor’s fingers grown twitchy on the armrest, the door opens. Connor’s gaze snaps towards it. He half-expecting to find a stranger's shadow blocking the doorway, awkward and unwanted, set to spoil his and Hank’s timid plans. But no. It’s Hank, thank God, his broad form unmistakable against the light. Something catches in the bottom of Connor’s lungs.

Hank walks carefully up the dark side aisle and takes a seat next to Connor. Their elbows brush. 

“Your Highness.”

Connor’s heart seems to have forced itself somewhere into his throat—their proximity, the half-dark, Hank’s strong profile lit by the flickering light from the screen. His greeting comes out small and squashed.

“Mr President.”

They sit in silence for a moment. The music rushes, high and triumphant, as five mounted horse riders ride full tilt towards one another, gunsmoke rising dramatically into the air. Lime green trees, the rocky, dusty ground, and Hank reaches over and places a hand on Connor’s knee. 

Connor does his best not to jolt into the contact. It’s dangerous, closely toeing the line of something utterly insane, and Connor knows that they would be incredibly stupid to push their closeness any further. All the same, he imagines leaning over and kissing him. On the cheek, at first, chaste and sweet. And then on the lips, on his neck, teeth and tongue just below the line of his collar. 

He imagines wrapping his own fingers around Hank’s, interlacing them and coming to sit with his knees on the outside of Hank’s thighs. Face to face, Connor would be Hank’s new point of focus. Perhaps he could crawl into the foot space and use his mouth to totally distract Hank from his favourite film. 

By the time the film reaches its conclusion, Connor isn’t sure he could recount one moment of the plot were he asked to. It’s probably dangerous, and he’d even made a point to try and remember as much of the storyline as possible, were anyone to ask him about it later. They watch as John Wayne rears his horse for the last time, riding victorious into the snow covered mountains.

The credits roll. Hank turns to him.

“Did you enjoy it?”

Connor can feel himself flush scarlet, grateful that only a small amount of light is coming from the black screen.

“I was a little distracted,” he admits, glancing down at Hank’s hand, still resting on Connor’s leg. He’s drifted up the length of his thigh, closer and tempting and reckless.

“Oh.” Hank follows the line of Connor’s vision. “I’m sorry.”

He folds his hands in his own lap—careful and not sorry at all. 

It was deliberate. Hank got what he wanted. Connor thinks he might love him even more, if that were possible.

“We should get going,” Hank says, getting to his feet. “Lunch on the lawns. Fireworks this evening.”

Connor considers staying seated, refusing to move until Hank takes his place beside him once more, until he leans over and pulls Connor into his lap.

In the end, he holds out his hand and Hank takes it, helping him to his feet. A final shiver of electricity crackles between them, Hank’s palm slightly rough against Connor’s own.

The rest of the day passes in a whirl—far removed from their stretched hours of closeness and silence in the theater. As Connor discusses the pros and cons of the recent changes in European trade laws, he misses the weight of Hank’s hand on his knee. He watches Hank from across the room and he thinks about that heavy tension settled in the silence between them, the promise and passion rolling in every line of Connor’s body. It seems intolerable that he has to wait any number of hours before he can feel Hank’s hands on his body again. 

In the evening, Hank, Connor, and the rest of the guests head in a neat convoy down Constitution Avenue, their cars like shiny black beetles in the fading purple light. All along the lawns, beneath the overhanging branches of trees and beside the long rectangle of glassy water, small groups of people are setting up picnic blankets and low camping chairs. Behind the Lincoln Memorial, the sun is a heavy red disc, hovering on a hazy horizon. The familiar ghost of the Washington Monument glows a dusky pink in the distance, before flood lights turn on and cast it a shocking white. 

They head for a stand set up on the grass in front of the water, facing the sunset. The light reflects in the pool, turning it flat and dark in its marble border. On either side of them, members of the seated public look up and grin, wave, take pictures. Hank waves right back.

As the night begins to settle around them in earnest, a navy sky that shimmers gold at the edges with lights from the surrounding city, the fireworks begin. 

Connor has seen fireworks before, of course. Bonfire night celebrations with great burning pyres that spit orange sparks into the black sky, his fingers and toes turning icy from standing still for so long in the November chill. This is something quite different.

Flashes of light in every colour of the rainbow, great washes of white that burn themselves into Connor’s retinas. The awed gasps from the crowds are almost totally drowned by the screaming pinwheels that throw themselves into the heavens, the crackling showers of silver that fall like rain over the white block of the Lincoln Memorial. 

And there’s music, too. Patriotic strains that cause voices in the crowd to soar above the trees, popular instrumentals, quiet classical pieces that string themselves between the white stars blazing in the sky. The combination of the lights and the noise leaves Connor half-blind, his heart beating too fast. It’s as if the fireworks have fallen to the earth and crept their way out over his skin. Hank is standing in front of him and to the right, and Connor’s hands shake with the crackling desire to reach out and place his palm between his shoulders. 

Confident that everyone’s attention is fixed on the sky, Connor allows himself to steal long glances at Hank’s back. His silver hair catches each change in colour—white turned blue, to orange, to a deep, fiery red. Every now and then, Hank turns his head to one side and Connor catches a glimpse of his powerful profile, his heavy brow. The curl of his upper lip. 

When the guest next to Hank moves over, summoned by a member of their security team, Connor steps forward to take their place. He puts himself in the blue light at Hank’s side. Their arms rest on the barrier, and Hank presses his forearm against Connor’s. 

It’s far too loud to speak. Connor lets every word he wants to say wheel up into the atmosphere and explode above their heads.

By the time they return to the White House, Connor is grateful to be afforded a moment of quiet. He feels wrung out, perpetually on edge by his proximity to Hank and his inability to do anything about it, dazed by over half an hour of deafening lights and music. 

The Lincoln Bedroom is a welcome respite. He sits on the edge of the bed for several minutes, simply staring at the closed door, letting his mind calm and take stock of the day. It seems far longer than a day since he woke up in this bed with the memory of Hank resting inside him like a dream.

After a while, Connor checks his phone—his business handset, number and location thoroughly vetted by the palace—and finds a text from Niles waiting for him. His stomach flutters as he reads his brother’s name on the screen. It’s been a long time since he has seen a notification from this contact, his brother’s name, followed by the golden crown emoji. At the time this had seemed funny, despite Niles’ unimpressed look when Connor had shown him. It doesn’t seem quite so funny now. He opens the message. 

_How American. I hope you’re having a good time. N._

Niles has attached a photograph pulled from a social media site. It shows Connor and Hank, at the barrier of the stand, surrounded by other guests, gazing with awe at the sky. Even with the poor quality of the photo, shakily zoomed in over the heads of other onlookers, Connor can see how their faces are illuminated by the fireworks. They look good together—Connor pale, his long fingers interlaced before him, Hank handsome and relaxed, his lips slightly parted. 

It’s a pleasant thought at first, but it grows thorns as it settles in his chest. Connor closes the message and tries not to think too hard about his brother. He resolves to contact him properly when he returns home, hopefully to close the distance that has expanded between them over the past few months, to afford them a proper space to talk through the complexity of their emotions. 

Midnight creeps closer. Connor walks up and down, listening closely to the sounds of the house growing quiet around him. Doors click closed, cars pull up to the other side of the house and then drive away. Voices echo in the hallway—not Hank’s, he’s certain of that—and then silence falls. He undresses, playing out the steps that will lead him to Hank’s bedroom. He chooses a pair of dark silk pyjamas, trousers and a short sleeved shirt with a high, neat collar.

When he’s finally content that he’s not going to meet anyone on his way, Connor heads out into the corridor. He remembers doing this ten months ago; he can practically feel his nerves stretching their fingers out over the past year, stroking against the back of his neck. 

The carpet is soft against his bare soles, and his feet remember the way. 

It’s like a silver thread strings him along to Hank’s side, sparkling beneath his fingers. He finds his way easily down the wide corridors, finding himself standing in front of Hank’s bedroom door. The wood is dark and shiny, somewhat austere, and Connor can’t help but feel hesitant to raise his fist and knock. 

He holds his love for Hank behind cupped hands. The thought of exposing it—this searing flame, white-hot and insistent—is scary, honestly, a broad view of the soft underside of his heart. A thing he’s never told anyone, an intensity of emotion that he’s never felt. 

When Connor finally knocks, it takes barely five seconds for the door to open. He knows that feeling, Hank must have been pacing in the room beyond, wondering when Connor was going to arrive, contemplating all the ways in which he might have been delayed. At the sight of Hank standing there, grinning, his blue eyes crinkled at the edges, all of Connor’s initial nerves and trepidation melt away into nothingness. 

“Good evening,” Connor says smartly, pressed up against the sound of his heart beating wildly in his head.

Hank grins, stepping to one side. “Come in.”

The door closes behind them, and Connor gets a glimpse of Hank’s bedroom for the first time.

It’s a bigger room than the one Connor is staying in, adorned with sleek, pale furnishings—a cream carpet and softly patterned rug, mint green curtains pulled across the windows and draped above the large bed. There’s a low coffee table surrounded by several chairs upholstered in rich, cream brocade, placed before a white marble fireplace. It doesn’t seem very much like the kind of decor that Hank would choose himself. Connor wonders what his rooms have looked like before—before the presidency, before this temporary residency, passing through this room in which has lain so much history and importance.

Connor takes a step forward, searching for those personal touches that he missed on first glance. A stack of paperbacks on the bedside table, a pair of reading glasses, the lenses shining flat in the yellow light from the lamp. On the mantelpiece, there are several framed photographs: Cole, Cole and Sumo, a dark haired woman who Connor doesn’t recognise, and in one corner sits a small writing desk, stacked high with notecards and pens. Little pockets of Hank nestled within the impersonal interior. 

An open door to the left leads into a darkened sitting room, and Connor can see the shadow of an armchair pulled up beside one of the tall windows. He thinks of Hank sitting there, reading, looking out onto the rolling lawns, his mind wandering out across the Atlantic. 

“So?” 

Hank’s voice comes from behind him, filtering in through his imaginings. 

“So what?” Connor asks.

“What do you think?”

Well, he’d expressed his curiosity, after all. He weighs up the benefits of a polished lie against the slightly disappointing truth. 

He knows that Hank appreciates his candidness, and in the end, he opts for honesty.

“It doesn’t feel like _you_ live here, really,” Connor explains, turning to Hank. “If you take away your photographs and your books. This could be anyone’s bedroom.”

At Connor’s words, Hank’s expression shifts. It’s not hurt, he hasn’t been insulted by Connor’s truthfulness; instead Connor thinks he looks tired, disappointed.

“It’s hard when you’re travelling all the time,” Hank shrugs. “When there’s no one here to come back to.”

Connor nods. He understands. 

“It’s not _home_ , you know,” Hank continues, and the admission makes Connor’s chest hurt. 

_So where is home?_ Connor thinks. He doesn’t say it, he doesn’t need to. As Hank pulls him in close, wrapping both arms around him so that Connor is pressed close enough to his chest to hear his heartbeat, he knows the answer.

He knows the answer. This is home. 

They come together like two flames, burning, aching, curling around each other. It has become so familiar, this push and pull of their bodies; Hank knows how to touch Connor in a way that makes his back arch, sparks flying across his skin. He’s gentle at first—his soft touches lingering in a way that makes Connor sure he’s going to have to ask for more—but his caresses grow rougher, like he can’t hold himself back, like he wants to take as much of Connor as he can.

They lay back against soft sheets, and Hank takes his time, with fingers that tremble he takes his time to undress Connor and lay kisses against his chest. He covers him with his body and bites down on his shoulder, scrapes his teeth against Connor’s nipple. Connor desperately wants to cry out—moans, platitudes, confessions—but he knows better than that by now. With one fist clamped over his own mouth, he comes apart beneath Hank’s hands.

Hank pushes him down to the mattress and sinks into him, taking his time. Connor’s breath hitches high in his throat. 

“You ready?” Hank asks, from somewhere above him. Connor had barely realised that his eyes were closed tight in anticipation. 

“I’m ready.” Connor nods. God knows he’s been ready for hours, since their time seated together in the dark, since this morning when he had woken up with the memory of Hank’s hands against his back. “Please.”

Hank kisses him through every moment, that first stretch, each burning roll and snap of his hips; he kisses the gasps out of Connor’s mouth when he finds that sweet spot inside him and brushes over it—again and again and, fuck, again. When Connor’s body starts to tighten and strain, pushing him towards his release, Hank wraps his arms around him and holds him close. The friction is enough that Connor spills between them, a sudden blow to the gut that crackles through him in hot, heady waves. White streaks the silver hair on Hank’s belly.

It doesn’t take long for Hank to follow. He must have been wound up all day too, thinking about last night. Thinking about how Connor's body had looked in the low light and how he had not yet told him he loved him.

They lay together in the afterglow, as always, taken and stunned by the enormity of what they have just done. All the danger seems to pale into nothingness when they’re lost in each other, but in the quiet it seeps back in, like the first fingers of daylight. It’s not regret, nothing of the sort, Connor doesn’t think he’s ever been more certain about anything he’s ever done in his life. Instead it’s that mounting sense of injustice again—fury that he should be made to feel anything other than jubilant about this man who he’s sure is made for him, in some oblique way, as yet unspoken.

Hank is still wearing his shirt, undone and loose at his back. Connor slides one hand in between the fabric and Hank’s skin, relishing the warmth of him, his broad, soft strength. His ribcage moves with a heavy sigh, and Connor thinks to ask if there’s anything troubling him, but of course that would be a stupid question.

Connor moves a little closer, slotting their bodies together.

Nestled in against Hank’s side, it doesn’t take much for Connor to fall into a half-sleep. He’s aware of Hank’s hand in his hair, stroking his curls away from his forehead, of the sound of their breath rising and falling. Later, although he cannot be sure of how much later, Connor senses Hank moving away from him, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Where are you going?” Connor asks, drowsily. How easy it would be, to fall asleep and spend the night here, in these sheets that smell like Hank. He reaches out one hand and touches Hank’s back.

Hank smiles, closing his fingers around Connor’s own. “I’m gonna clean up.”

Connor watches him go. It hurts to be even this far from him, especially when he knows that in only a few days the incredible swathe of the Atlantic will be laid out between them once more. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think about it.

When he opens his eyes again, the room is dark, and Hank is nowhere to be seen. At the far end of the room, a golden light glows, a long, thin sliver from the doorway that leads into the adjacent room. Slowly, Connor extracts himself from the sheets, and covers himself with a robe that is slung over the back of one of the armchairs. Dark navy and heavy silk, it smells like Hank’s cologne.

The door leads into the sitting room, cosy and plain in comparison to the rest of the house—a small coffee table sits in front of a low, well worn sofa and the walls are lined with dark bookshelves, many of them half empty. Summer night air wafts in through an open door, which leads to the collonaded balcony outside. 

From this position, Connor can see Hank leaning against the metal railings, looking out over the dark gardens. Were it not for the breeze shifting in his hair and moving the back of his shirt, he could be a fine statue poised out on a parapet, lit from beneath by the floor lamps that line the edge of the building. 

Connor crosses the room and leans up against the side of the doorway.

“Are you coming back to bed?” he asks, after a long moment.

Hank’s reply is prompt and calm; he must have sensed Connor’s presence, sensed that he was watching him, and not minded at all.

“In a minute. Come out here,” Hank says, without turning to face him. 

Connor does as requested, joining Hank at the edge. Hank’s shirt is still open, and Connor wonders if he’s cold—despite the summer warmth, there is a cool twist in the damp air that betrays the lateness of the hour.

As Connor rests his hands on the railings, Hank looks over at him. Connor has never felt anything quite like Hank’s gaze before, that focus, that softness and intensity.

“You’re wearing my robe.” Hank runs a finger over the white piping at Connor’s wrist.

“Is that okay?” Connor asks.

“Oh, of course,” Hank replies, a little laugh beneath his words. “It looks better on you anyway. You should keep it.”

It’s not a serious request. For one, the robe doesn’t fit Connor anywhere near as well as he’s sure it fits Hank. What’s more, it would be pure stupidity for Connor to carry such a personal item back in his luggage. He’ll have to enjoy it for now, in the moment, being enveloped in Hank’s warm, woody scent.

They stand as close together as possible—elbow to elbow, thigh against thigh, Connor’s shoulder pressed to Hank’s upper arm. In the distance, the sky is a glowing lilac, and Connor wonders if the sun is beginning to rise. Or perhaps it’s just the city lights throwing themselves up into the sky, for surely not that many hours have passed since he left his own bedroom.

“Y’know, Connor,” Hank says, after a long silence, “it’s been almost a year since we first met.”

How could Connor forget? That first dinner, when Hank had called him by his brother’s title and laughed about it, when their knees had brushed under the table. Conversation in the presidential guest house, where Connor had confessed his sexuality and Hank’s expression might have betrayed him there and then, had Connor thought to look closely enough. 

“It’s passed quickly,” Connor says, leaning his head against Hank’s shoulder. 

“Do you think?” Once more, Hank’s gaze is trained out over the dark gardens.

“In some ways,” Connor replies. He can tell that Hank has more to say and he waits for him to say it, crossing his arm over to grab Hank’s forearm.

“I feel like—” Hank begins slowly, quietly, as though confession costs him a great effort. “I feel like I’ve known you for a long time. Longer than a year, long before all this happened.” He punctuates his words with a one-handed gesture around him, at the balcony and at the house behind. “Like all of this was meant to be. Like, hell, we couldn’t have stopped this even if we’d wanted to.”

Connor doesn’t speak. He doesn’t think he could if he wanted to, heart in his mouth—but it doesn’t matter. Every word Hank says reflects his own feelings back at him like a mirror.

“I want you to stay with me tonight,” Hank continues. “I don’t want to wake up without you.”

All of Hank’s words fall through Connor like shooting stars, white and gold, high and bright. They fill his lungs, his chest, squeezing his ribcage until all his emotions burn right at the back of his throat.

Connor swallows, and the depth of his feeling rolls through him in a delicious wave.

This is it, it has to be. A moment as right as any.

“I love you.”

Connor speaks it into the dark, at first. And then again, with his face turned to Hank, watching the shifting of his profile in the half light. 

“I love you.” 

It takes Hank a few seconds to answer. Connor isn’t worried. The idea that Hank won’t reciprocate doesn’t even cross his mind, these words have rested between them since their nights in the highlands, since Hank’s mouth on Connor’s spine in a cramped airplane bathroom. Since that too-big theatre box, and the memory of Hank’s hand at Connor’s back. 

“I love you too.”

The words have barely left Hank’s lips before he’s kissing Connor. Both hands cup Connor’s jaw, and Hank turns so that their bodies meet. Connor stills, takes a shuddering breath, and wraps his arms around Hank’s waist.

Hank pulls back, no more than an inch, and speaks against Connor’s skin.

“How long?” he asks. “How long have you known?”

“I don’t know,” Connor replies honestly. There’s no way to measure it, not really. “A long time, I think. Have you—?”

“Since that first time,” Hank says, and there’s a catch in his voice that sounds like tears. “Since you came to my office in the middle of the night and asked me to kiss you.” 

Connor has no words for that. He kisses Hank, long and slow, and tries to share all those months of hidden emotion between Hank’s body and his own.

They stand together for some time, kissing and then not kissing, foreheads pressed together and Hank’s hands roaming all over the length of Connor’s back. The sky begins to colour in earnest, creeping pinks and purples shining on the horizon. 

“I should get some sleep,” Hank says eventually, and Connor nods. What he really wants to do is to hold tightly onto Hank’s wrist and refuse to let him go, convince him to sack off the day of engagements and take him to bed until the sun sets again. In the end, he loosens his arms from around Hank’s waist and lets him take a step towards the house.

“Come back to bed when you’re ready, okay?” Hank says. Connor loves him so very much in that moment, his blue eyes slightly glassy in the light, looking like he can barely believe the man who is standing before him.

Connor spends another few minutes out on the balcony. Alone, he watches how more headlights begin to stream down the far off avenue, how dark the Washington Monument still looks without sunlight to set off its marble façade.

A little closer to the house, in the black soup of the gardens, a small glimmer of light catches Connor’s eye. Low at first, and then once again, sharper and brighter. It looks like a mirror catching the light. Connor waits for it to appear a third time, but it doesn’t. An optical trick, surely, one of the windows in the lower floors lighting and reflecting in the water from the White House fountain. Or an errant cyclist, perhaps, passing along the pedestrian walkway that cuts through the lawns.

He turns back towards the house, back towards the bedroom. Towards Hank.

As he gets into bed and settles into the warm bracket of Hank’s body, he’s not sure he’ll be able to sleep. Not with the thought that he gets to wake up beside him for the first time, with those blue eyes finding his own.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A little closer to the house, in the black soup of the gardens, a small glimmer catches Connor’s eye. It looks like a mirror catching the light."

Connor wakes with the sun warming his face. The drapes must still be pinned back by their velveteen ties, letting the thin morning light seep in through the fine lace curtains drawn across the windows. He knows instantly where he is, even before he has opened his eyes. No depth of sleep could cloud his certainty on that.

The Presidential Bedroom, the White House. Hank’s bed. With Hank laying beside him, no less, and there’s the sound of his deep, steady breaths.

Connor has fantasised for so long about waking up here that he hardly dares to believe it is not a dream. 

He opens his eyes slowly, as though the smallest movement could shatter the illusion, the morning calm. Hank is turned towards him, their faces barely inches apart. They had fallen asleep with Connor nestled into the bough of Hank’s body, Hank’s broad forearm slung over Connor’s waist, the rhythm of their breathing falling in time.

Sometime in the night, however, they’ve turned to face each other. To regard each other, even in sleep.

Connor takes this opportunity to study Hank. 

In repose, his features are soft. Soft without that piercing, precise gaze, serious beneath the gentle furrow of his brow. Unshadowed in the sunlight, his mouth slightly downturned at the corners. He’s let his hair grow out some in the past year, and it seems dark against the white sheets, gunmetal grey. Connor ghosts his fingers across the laughter lines at the side of Hank’s mouth, along the crow’s feet beside his eyes. He looks younger like this, Connor thinks, the age and experience and life in his features flattened out by sleep. Perhaps Connor is looking at the calm face of Hank in his first years of senatorship. Perhaps not. He’s thinking too much into it.

Over the next few minutes, Hank begins to stir, a slow awakening that rolls through him like thunder. His breath quickens, his eyelids flicker. Connor withdraws his own hands and tucks them back underneath his cheek. 

Hank opens his eyes. Slow at first, but then his gaze finds Connor’s—finds his face, his naked shoulder rising above Hank’s sheets, and then tracks back to his eyes, trained steadily on Hank’s own. Copper brown against the blue of a sunbaked Texas sky.

Hank gives his head a small shake, as though he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. Connor knows that feeling.

“Good morning.” Connor speaks first, and his words are low, sunlit secrets.

Hank smiles. The left corner of his mouth crooks up in a way that Connor has always found endearing, and at this close proximity it makes a fond fist close around his heart.

“Good morning, Connor.”

A breathy sigh passes between them.

“This is real, right?” Hank asks. 

Connor laughs. He laughs at Hank’s candidness, and he laughs with relief— _yes. This is real._

“Never thought we’d get here.” As Hank speaks he brushes a brown curl away from Connor’s face. 

“No,” Connor agrees. “I wanted it, though. I’ve dreamt about it.”

In his broken, unsettled sleep he’s dreamt about it, and in his deepest rest, where he would wake convinced that Hank was sleeping beside him. Hank kisses Connor’s forehead, the place where his fingers touched only moments before.

“I love you.” Connor can’t help himself now. His admission last night has opened something inside him, and his love for Hank pours free, from his lips, from his fingertips.

“Say it again,” Hank says. 

And Connor does. He says it over and over, with his mouth against Hank’s own, against his cheekbone, through the soft silver of his beard. He says it as Hank hooks his arm around Connor’s waist, and pulls the two of them closer together. 

This is different. Slow and sunny, with Hank’s hands pushing below the sheets to move over Connor’s skin, to coast between his shoulder blades. Their fire from the night before still burns, but it has simmered to slumbering embers, white-hot at the perfect line where their bodies meet. There’s a languorous stirring of interest between them, and Connor slides his fingers into the waistband of Hank’s boxers. 

“Do we have time?” Connor asks.

Hank doesn’t pause to consider the question properly. “Probably not,” he replies, and as he speaks his big hands find Connor’s hips. _Probably not, but we should do it anyway._

Hank grins, and Connor thinks how lucky he is. 

They move together. Connor marvels at how Hank’s body feels against his own, softness and power, the tough muscle in his upper arms, the gentle swell of his chest and belly. How easy it would be to fall apart beneath such broadness and strength. But Hank makes Connor feel bold, bright, important in a way that he has never felt before. Connor’s teeth catch Hank’s bottom lip and he pulls himself in closer, one hand at the small of Hank’s back. 

It doesn’t take long for them to get lost in each other. It never does. So lost, in fact, that it takes a moment for either of them to register that a new sound has started in the room.

A low buzzing, innocuous but insistent, coming from Hank’s bedside table.

Hank pulls away first. He looks a little put out, annoyed that their last few moments together have been interrupted. 

“It’s my phone,” he says, pushing himself up onto one elbow. “Sorry—I should get it.”

“Shall I leave?” Connor asks.

Hank shakes his head.

“No. No, just. Stay there, okay?” He gives Connor a small smile. 

As Hank sits up, Connor watches, watches how the morning light shadows the shift of the muscles across his shoulders, around his spine. Connor understands that neverending press of obligation, and he feels sadness and sympathy in the face of it. Quietly, he reaches out and presses his fingertips against Hank’s upper arm.

Hank casts only the briefest glance at the phone’s screen before raising the handset to his ear.

“Hello?” 

A beat passes. In the silence, Hank’s body grows very still. 

Instantly, Connor knows that something is wrong. 

Although he cannot see Hank’s face from this angle, he can tell that he’s listening intently to the person on the other end of the line. Connor strains to hear the other side of the conversation—clearly heavy with information, but only quiet, garbled sounds come from the speaker, and it’s impossible to distinguish any words. 

When Hank finally speaks, his voice is tight and restrained in a way that Connor has never heard it before.

“Right.” A long pause. “Yes, I understand.”

The words make Connor’s whole body thrum with cold anticipation. He shifts restlessly, desperately trying not to make a sound against the sheets. 

“Okay,” Hank mutters, after another strained thirty seconds. “Yes, I did.”

Finally, Hank turns to face Connor. All of the colour has drained from his cheeks, and his face is a pale, tired imitation of everything that Connor loves. Connor’s not sure that Hank even really registers him—the wide glance of his eyes, hoping that Hank might throw him a silent gesture, a half-piece of information. 

Hank’s mouth twitches. He’s considering an answer, chewing over his words. 

“Yes. Yes, he is.”

And Connor knows.

He knows then, without a shadow of a doubt. 

At the back of his mind a flame red siren begins to wheel, extinguishing all sensible thought, leaving him with nothing more than the frantic pounding of his heartbeat in his own head. 

Hank turns away from him again, raising one hand to cup the phone even closer to his face.

“Give me half an hour,” Hank says quietly, voice tinged with desperation. “Please.” 

He listens for another moment, and Connor can hear little more than his own breath coming in short, shaking gasps. 

“Okay.” Hank shakes his head. “Yeah, I will. Goodbye.”

He ends the call and places the handset back down on the bedside table. Silence falls between them again, thicker and somehow more impenetrable than before. It buzzes through the air, a high, singing sound that makes Connor wish that Hank would just say something—something, _anything_ would be better than the shape of words being left unsaid.

When Hank finally speaks, his voice is low and harsh, as if every word is being punched out of him.

“ _Fuck._ Fucking goddamn it.”

Dread filters through Connor’s veins, ice cold. He’s heard several new sides of Hank in just the past few minutes—resignation, fear, tight desperation—and he’s scared. 

“What is it?” Connor asks, sitting up. He gathers the sheets to his chest. 

It takes Hank a while to speak, and Connor can practically see the words turning over in his head. 

Connor holds his breath. Hank doesn’t look at him.

“Last night,” Hank begins, his tone far too calm, “there was someone down the lawns. A photographer, reporter, whatever. They had a camera.”

Hank stops. Takes a breath.

“They took a photograph of us on the balcony.” 

Those words confirm all of Connor’s fears, pulling them down into the cavity of his chest. They run through him like a blade, like steel beneath his ribs.

Their secret, unearthed—perfect and shameful. His fists tighten in the sheets.

“A photograph?”

Hank nods.

“More than one, from the sounds of it.”

Connor remembers it then, too late, of course. A flash in his memory—that little glimmer of light, as yet unregistered in its importance. It’s utter, destructive importance.

“What did they see?”

“I don’t know,” Hank mutters, shaking his head. “Enough.”

 _Enough._ The word pulls the world from beneath them. Cracked ice floes rend and shatter and Connor feels as though his whole body has been plunged into cold water, the gravity of the situation crashing through him. Their year of sweetness and danger, exposed to the world.

“Can we stop it?” Connor asks, his voice small. He wonders how long he’s gone without speaking. 

Hank shakes his head.

“It’s out there already,” he replies, with a weak shrug. “Obviously the photographer sold it on as quickly as they could. Besides. Not much you can do once social media gets ahold of it. Injunctions can only go so far.”

Connor thinks of his own phone, still in the Lincoln Bedroom. He must have a hundred unread messages, a thousand missed phone calls, a panicked team somewhere desperately trying to stem the flow of information out into the world. Bloody fingers clamped down on a severed artery, all while Connor lay and dreamed and wrapped his arms mindlessly around his secret lover. 

North, he thinks with a start. North will be kicking down his door. 

Niles. His mother. 

His recklessness has ruined them all.

On the bed, Hank is frozen in the exact same position as he was when he first answered the phone—body leant forwards slightly, shoulders in a loose, defeated slump. Connor can only imagine the blackness of his thoughts.

When Hank finally speaks, his voice has a bite to it, a directionless anger. 

“We should have been more careful. What were we thinking, out on the balcony like that, for the whole damn world to see?”

Although Connor doesn’t think Hank is really speaking to him, he cannot fathom any kind of answer. 

“I just wanted to feel _normal_ for a second, y’know?” Hank continues, bitter and so incredibly sad that Connor reaches a hand out towards him. He doesn’t seem to notice. “I wanted to stand out there with you and look out at the city. Suppose that was too much to ask.” 

With a sudden movement, hasty enough to make Connor jump, Hank gets to his feet. 

“I have to get ready,” he says, a certain matter-of-factness forced into his words. Connor watches helplessly as Hank busies himself for a few minutes—pulling on his bathrobe before taking clothes out of the closet and laying them across one of the nearby chairs, finding a pair of shiny black shoes in a box beside the bed. He goes into the en-suite bathroom and runs the water. He exits again, stares at the white shirt and grey trousers that he has selected. 

And then, as quickly as he had started, something halts Hank in his tracks. 

When he turns to face Connor, his expression makes Connor’s whole body go numb.

“This is going to destroy me.”

The words sound like a death knell.

Connor scrambles desperately for some comforting response, something that might lift the pain from Hank’s eyes. He knows there is nothing to be said. He knows he can’t stay silent. 

“We can think of something,” is what he settles on in the end. It sounds weak and unencouraging, and Hank raises one eyebrow in response. Connor continues, as if that will help anything. “I’ve had my fair share of national scandals. There’s always a way to spin it, a way to cushion the blow. Mother will help, and I’m sure Niles could—”

Hank raises a hand, silencing him.

“Connor, stop. Please.”

If anything, Connor’s words seem to have made Hank’s expression more pained, carving those desperate lines in even deeper. The sight makes something sharp and shocked rise up in the back of Connor’s throat.

“I’m not like you,” Hank says. “I’m not like you at all. I’m an elected official. I’m not royalty, I’m not a _prince_.” There is an edge to the last word that harks back to Hank’s anti-monarchist sensibilities, those views that had drawn him and Connor together by chance all those months ago. “My country’s loyalty to me relies on polls and performance. They chose me to lead because they thought I would do the best job, better than the other guy, better than anyone else. You can’t afford to make mistakes.”

All thoughts of getting ready clearly abandoned for the moment, Hank sits down on the edge of the bed. Connor doesn’t move to sit beside him. 

“Politics is a game, Connor. Always someone out there looking to cut you down, no matter what.” Hank reaches back and wraps his hand around Connor’s ankle, over the sheets. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Connor thinks of contesting that— _I would understand_ or please, let me understand—but he knows there’s no point. He rests in a comfortable cradle of divine right, long protected by the reality of his bloodline. _Dieu et mon droit._

Hank scratches his spare hand over his beard. “I have to serve the people. To represent them. I’ve built this whole career on being honest and transparent. God.”

He gives a low, disbelieving laugh.

“Y’know, last month a reporter asked me if I was thinking about getting married again.”

Connor’s breath stills at the top of his lungs, shivering. “And?”

“And I lied,” Hank replies. “I said no.”

The implication makes Connor’s heart skip several beats, lighter than air.

“Strange how that felt so dishonest,” Hank says quietly, “that little lie. I didn’t even think about all of this hiding beneath it.”

Connor rises onto his knees and closes the short distance between them, wrapping his arms around Hank’s shoulders. The crook of his neck smells so familiar now, woody and sharp and beneath it today, that sweet combination of both their bodies drawn together. 

“We should have stopped this while we had the chance,” Hank says, despondently. “We were so stupid to think we wouldn’t get caught eventually.”

“Don’t say that.” Connor speaks the words against Hank’s skin. “Please, don’t say that. Hank. Would you really change any of this?”

In reply, Hank raises one hand to grasp at Connor’s forearm. It’s not much of a response, and Hank’s silence makes a wave of nausea crash through Connor’s body, starting in a tight knot around his heart.

He swallows it down. 

“Will everything be okay?”

Connor’s question—his stupid, dense question—is quiet and watery. Idiotic. How can anything be okay now? In one night, everything has been turned on its head and had all of the guts shaken out of it.

“I don’t know, Connor,” Hank replies. “I don’t know.” 

Hank’s shoulders heave, just once, a great, mournful movement. Connor wants to kiss him, to take his face between his hands and tell him that everything will be okay. He wants to slide over into his lap and press their heartbeats together.

He wants to turn back time and never step out onto that balcony, beneath the stars’ traitorous gaze. 

Connor doesn’t do any of these things. His arms stay wrapped around Hank’s shoulders, his chest pressed flush against Hank’s back. All of his fear and regret worries against the rounded vertebra at the top of Hank’s spine and he wishes he could read Hank’s thoughts.

It’s a while before Hank speaks. When he does, his voice is calm and even.

“You need to go now.”

Connor tries not to draw the remark into himself, a poisonous thorn. It’s only the truth—Hank had asked for thirty minutes' respite, and they’ve already used up a large portion of it. Despite the passage of time, nothing seems any better; their path doesn’t shine any clearer.

With his thoughts whirling wildly around each other—the reactions of his mother, his brother, the whole watching world—Connor dresses, shamefully pulling on the same clothes that he had been wearing the night before. The suit feels restrictive, like a hard, metal casing, and Connor has to breathe deeply as he forces himself inside it. 

If the inside of his head is noisy, then his heart is an empty, thundering shell. 

From the bedside, Hank watches him. Connor loves that gaze, blue and steady and sad. 

“Thank you,” Hank says quietly, as they stand before the door.

“For what?”

“For this year.” 

The words are like a dagger, steel and simple. They are a clearer termination than anything else Hank had said. 

_This year is far more than we should have had. This year has been enough._

It sounds like a farewell. For the first time, Connor feels like he might cry.

Before he opens the door, Hank lays one big hand on Connor’s chest, right over his heart. The gesture makes Connor’s throat squeeze shut, and any words are silenced.

As Connor goes back to his room, he passes several staff members in the corridors, most of them rushing busily about their daily chores. So pointed is their avoidance of his gaze that he is certain they all know something, if not the whole story. At least whisperings of it all. He can feel his cheeks turn red and hot and beneath his shirt, Hank’s handprint burns, a brand over his heart.

Back in his room, Connor takes his phone off his nightstand with the slow, creeping dread of someone pulling back a death shroud. Sure enough, he finds that the screen is filled with notifications—innocuous white boxes that do nothing to betray the severity of the situation at hand. He sees his brother’s contact: _1 new message_ ; beneath that, his mother: _5 new messages_. At the top of the screen: _North: 11 missed calls_. 

It doesn’t seem real. 

An out of context glance at the handset might tell a story of him missing a meeting, or oversleeping, or doing something absolutely forgivable: something that would hardly marr his public image at all. Certainly not conducting a year-long, clandestine affair with the President of the United States and getting caught sleeping in his bedroom.

Connor stares down at the notifications, unseeing, and then places the phone face down on the bedside table. Unopened. He sits down heavily at the end of the bed, his head in his hands. 

He needs to think. 

Will they be forced to end it all? Connor can see it now: a public apology, American newspapers paid under the counter to twist the tale of the seductive foreign prince, a long recovery and a page in the history books. The wedge of the Atlantic shoved between them once again and firmly locked in place, distance and duty over everything else.

Once upon a time, he might have thought he knew what he and Hank would do in this situation. Stick together, united in their partnership, strong in the face of it all. 

Now though? With reality pressing in on all sides, heavy and unpredictable, Connor has no idea what is going to happen. 

A sudden knock at the door startles him from his reverie. 

The sound is sharp and urgent, and it comes again only a few seconds later, louder than before. Connor stays seated on the edge of the bed and hopes that the sound will wake him up—that he will be pulled out of this nightmare and placed into some new world where none of this exists. Back into the President’s bedroom, in the middle of the night, before he’d stepped onto the balcony; his dark-panelled bedroom in his Kensington home. His childhood bedroom, the palace, before the danger of love and the cares of the world had seeped into his life.

Another knock, and then a frustrated voice.

“Open this door!” 

It’s North. 

Connor pinches the inside of his wrist, hard, a last ditch attempt to pull himself into a new consciousness. It doesn’t work. He swears under his breath.

“Your Highness?” And then, dark and furious— “Connor!”

Aware that it might breed even more trouble if he keeps her waiting, Connor gets to his feet and begrudgingly opens the door. 

Fortunately, North is standing alone on the other side of the threshold. Unfortunately, she is holding a stack of newspapers and her tablet, and her face is grave and angry. She forces her way past him, brandishing one of the papers in his face. 

“What the fuck is this?”

It’s Connor’s first time seeing the picture. Or pictures, as Hank had accurately stated. In order to see them properly, he has to take the paper from her shaking hand, and he finds that his own fingers are no steadier. 

There are three photographs. The main one, spread out over half of the front page, makes Connor’s heart stop. Shot from many feet below, it shows him and Hank standing on the balcony. Their foreheads are pressed gently together, Hank’s hands braced on Connor’s hips—and even with the long distance, low lit blur, Connor can feel the intensity of their gaze. Eyes only for each other, their eventual downfall. 

There are two images nested alongside. The first shows them standing shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the lawns, Connor’s head tilted slightly so it rests against Hank’s upper arm. The other shows them kissing. The sight of Hank’s arm wrapped around Connor’s waist makes his knees feel weak.

Above the photographs, the headline reads: _The Prince and The President: Bedroom Politics?_

Connor stares down at the paper, formulating an answer to North’s question. There’s no point trying to lie, the evidence is stacked against him in insurmountable piles. 

After a while, he looks back up at her. “It’s exactly what it looks like.”

North runs her hand over her face, exasperated. This is the most emotional Connor has ever seen her, and honestly, he would do anything to have his familiar stoic advisor back. She doesn’t respond directly, turning instead to the end of the bed and laying the papers out over the sheets.

“Look at these.” She spreads them out in an accusatory fan, a kaleidoscope of their deceit, and Connor looks. At first glance, it appears to be the same three images over and over—the sight of which is so intimate that Connor wishes he could just close his eyes against it—but as he pushes through the publications he notices a different image among the familiar set. 

Clearly not as big a seller, it shows Connor standing alone on the balcony. The lighting is a little different, crisper in the foreground, Connor’s figure a solitary shadow in the far distance. Taken with a camera flash, perhaps, that bright little shimmer that Connor had noticed and foolishly discounted. 

“Where did you get all these?” Connor asks. 

“I get them delivered every morning,” North says, pinching the bridge of her nose tightly between her thumb and forefinger. “You should know that—you know what, nevermind. Not important.”

North is a good few inches shorter than Connor, but he feels tiny in the face of her blazing ire. When she speaks again, her voice is low and crackling, a roll of thunder before a lightning strike.

“Imagine my absolute fucking disbelief when I recieved a phone call from your mother’s press secretary this morning and heard about _this_.” She gestures wildly at the spread of newspapers, shaking her head. “I don’t understand.”

Connor, embroiled in all of this since the very beginning, had hoped that North might be able to untangle this without much guidance from him. It’s selfish to think so. How strange it must be, to think you know a professional relationship and then see it morph into something scandalous overnight. 

“I’m not sure how well I’ll be able to explain it, North.”

She turns away and starts gathering up the newspapers with as much sharpness and accusation as she had laid them out. She doesn’t look at him, and Connor doesn’t ask her to. 

“How did this happen?”

It’s a wide-ranging question, intimidating for their first pass into this new territory. By the time Connor has some kind of answer, North has piled all of the papers back into her arms.

“It just did.” He sounds helpless, and he feels the disappointment and distrust rolling off her in waves. North has always been a constant in his life, even when he’s stepped over the line into scandal—but he can’t help but feel as if this might be one deception too far. His heart sinks.

She shakes her head. “Not an answer. Who started it?”

Connor thinks back to last September: Hank’s hand on the small of his back in their theatre box, Connor’s bare feet on the White House carpet. Hank’s lips on the inside of his wrist.

“I did, I suppose.” It’s a simplified version of the truth; Connor knows full well that they were both implicit in beginning their relationship. They both wanted it, and they both continued on beneath the veil of secrecy.

North has gathered herself somewhat, her anger forced down into a tight, professional box. Connor thinks he would rather she shouted at him again. 

“Okay,” she continues in that false, trembling calm, smoothing a strand of red hair back. “And it’s what it looks like? A relationship? Or is it something else?”

It feels impossible to distill his feelings for Hank down into a single word, a _something else_. It’s not easy to explain the depths of his emotion, the light that burns inside him so intense and bright that it actually hurts. 

“Yes,” he replies, with a nod. Conceding. “A relationship.”

“So it wasn’t just that one time?” 

North’s gaze has something pleading behind it—hopeful that Connor might give her some good news, something positive that she can latch onto. For a moment, Connor considers jumping on her invitation and making something up about the duration of their affair—a one-off, a mistake, wrong place, wrong time.

But he knows there’s no point. He shakes his head.

“It wasn’t just that one time. It’s been going on for a while.”

Something beneath North’s impeccably controlled exterior seems to crumble, ice sheets sliding down behind the unmoving face of a glacier. 

“How long?” she asks. 

And there’s the catch. The hard, nasty spark in the reality of all of this. The length of their deception, the amount of time that Connor had spent lying to people who had supported him. 

He swallows, a shameful beat.

“A year. Almost.”

“A year?!”

She raises a hand to her mouth, her eyes growing wide. The sight makes Connor’s stomach plummet even further, if that was possible, sinking down to somewhere beneath the carpet. He can see the cogs whirring in her head, going back through her perfect catalogue of palace events and flight paths and speeches—piecing the time frame together. It doesn’t take her long, of course, and she slowly lowers her hand.

“This has been going on since your first engagement here?”

The question comes with sickened disbelief, as if Connor had just carelessly taken chunks out of his family’s reputation at the very first opportunity he was given. Some small part of him is glad to be able to tell the truth this time. 

“Since September. Labor Day.”

North doesn’t look mollified by the clarification. As if a few months here or there would make any difference. She folds her arms tighter over the stack of newspapers.

“Did anyone else know about this?”

The question makes something sharp slide underneath Connor’s sternum, utterly decimating any last shred of hope that this might not all be as destructive as he had first thought. 

Niles. 

As if things couldn’t get any worse, he hadn’t told Hank about Niles. He hadn’t even considered it, really, the slack worry in Hank’s shoulders had been enough to wipe any sensible thought from his mind. It’s another turn in this dark maze of their dishonesty and the reality of what he finds smacks Connor hard between the eyes.

He takes a deep breath. “Niles may have… worked some things out.”

“The King?” North’s expression barely flickers, as if she’s suddenly become immune to the further wheeling twists that Connor’s story is bound to take. It’s admirable, really. “You mean to tell me that His Majesty knew about this and he didn’t say anything? To anyone?”

“I asked him not to.”

North closes her eyes, as if the brief respite might make all of this go away. “Good God.” 

The tablet clutched on top of the stack of newspapers gives a conspicuous ping. A welcome interruption. Before flipping it open to check the notification, North shoots him a look that says: _this is not over; don’t think I am even halfway done with you._

She stares intently at the screen for a long moment, reading. Connor knows better than to crane his neck to try and get a look at the text. 

North glances up at him.

“I have express instructions from Her Majesty to bring you home immediately.”

Connor’s stomach lurches. He imagines his mother, sitting in her pretty, sunlit drawing room and watching the news roll in. “Does she know?”

“Connor.” North tilts her head to one side, and there’s a look on her face that borders on pitying. “The whole damn world knows about this now.”

Her response pulls all the air from Connor’s lungs. Of course. He’s known scandal before, but nothing even comes close to the grandeur of this—politics and monarchy, sex and secrets, deceit stretched out over the Atlanic like a dark tide. It feels like he’s going into freefall, like no matter what he does now, there is no possibility of a safety net laid out to catch him.

North taps and swipes a few more times on the screen in front of her before speaking.

“You’ve got half an hour.”

Connor nods, too numb to do anything else.

“Okay.”

North looks at him like she wants to say something else. At first glance, one might expect another castigation or a further hard word, but Connor thinks there is something softer and more inquisitive in her expression. 

Whatever it is, she shakes it off and heads for the door, letting it click shut behind her.

Time begins to move very strangely through Connor’s fingers. The half hour in his room seems interminable, packing his case and then unpacking it, rearranging everything, a practice that he hasn’t had to do in a while. Presumably the notice has been given that Connor is not to be disturbed, and the isolated time makes him feel like he might just be locked in this loop for the rest of his life.

Once his team arrives to escort him to the airport and onto the plane, things begin to move very quickly. A whirlwind of bright interiors and the distance presence of camera crews lingering at the periphery of every new turn. Whoever dealt with the security of his journey has done an impeccable job, and he throws out a wordless thanks for the lack of flashbulbs going off in his face. 

He has a sneaking suspicion that Hank has had something to do with it.

It’s hard to think about him too much. It makes his throat feel like it’s being squashed down into his lungs. 

They don’t have to wait long before they’re boarding the plane, a relatively empty commercial flight due to arrive in London in the late evening. If the craft is carrying fewer passengers due to luck or due to the expert pulling of strings, Connor doesn’t ask. He settles into his seat and wonders how many of the passengers in the rest of the plane are aware that the disgraced prince is on board.

When they finally land, seven aching hours later, Connor is whisked straight off the plane and into the glass and marble expanses of Heathrow Airport. The security on this side of the ocean is not as tight, or perhaps the British press are just invested enough in the possibility of a good photograph that they’ll risk violating the terms of whatever injunction the palace will have inevitably put out.

As Connor is ushered towards his waiting car, he can hear noise on the other side of the barriers. Several members of airport security, usually so stone faced, watch with marked interest as North and the other members of Connor’s team crowd on one side of him, a shield that diverts the worst of the paparazzi’s attention.

It doesn’t stop him from hearing their shouts though, their clamouring and their invasive questions. 

“Tell us the whole story, Your Highness!”

“Is it an affair? Who started it?”

“How did you keep it a secret?”

Each shout cuts worse than a knife, buries deeper in him than the vicious sear of a bullet. That these people, utter strangers, cruel in their invasion, should know so much about him and Hank. A secret that he had guarded with cupped hands, a tender shoot that he had only dreamed would come to flower. It makes his blood run cold, his hands shake. His stomach turns over and over itself in sick knots.

North slides in beside him in the back seat of the waiting car. 

“Are you okay?” she asks.

In the face of his obvious distress, she has pushed her own anger to one side. The gesture makes Connor want to hug her, or else make the impeccable front of her shirt wet with his tears. 

“We tried to put as much security in place as possible,” she continues, shaking her head. “But nothing’s gonna stop the red tops from getting their scoop. Sorry.”

Connor swallows. He knows how rabid the press pack can get, and he knows it’s no one’s fault but his own. 

“It’s fine.” And then, to keep North from extending any more misguided kindness towards him: “Where are we going?”

She settles back into her seat.

“The palace. Your mother and brother are waiting for you.”

Connor watches the dark strip of the river flash by outside his window. He wishes it was neverending, wishes to drive on and on until the world turns dark around them and he doesn’t have to deal with his mistakes anymore. 

They turn into the palace courtyard far, far sooner than Connor would like. 

He remembers when he pulled up here more than a year ago, between these same pale walls now floodlit in the evening dusk, with the same gravel crunching beneath the wheels of the car. He remembers his nerves in the face of his brother’s proposition, uncertain about what he would be asked to do—a request that would colour his life far more vividly than he could have ever imagined. 

Would he have turned down the appointment if he had known how it would all end up? 

Connor can’t stop the images of Hank that float to the surface of his mind. Hank, who he had woken up next to that morning, with a bubble of happiness threatening to burst in his chest. Thousands of miles and many hours away now. Connor thinks of him, lonely in the White House, with his family far away and with only the brutal reality of the public and the harsh words of his advisors for company. 

It’s painful to imagine, but he tucks the memory of Hank’s kind eyes in the morning light right beneath his thundering heart. Like it might give him strength.

His mother and brother are waiting for him in his mother’s favourite reception room, the one that overlooks the gardens. There is no tea set out, no polite finger sandwiches and sponge cake to share as they navigate their way through the waters of international diplomacy. Instead, there are two familiar figures set in shadow at the far end of the room, like dark spectres waiting to seal his fate.

Connor steps over the threshold and a member of palace staff closes the door behind him, leaving the three of them alone. Through the tall windows he can see the July night’s sky, a navy-purple bowl set out over the city.

Amanda is dressed extremely casually—for her, at least—in a pair of dark grey trousers and a neat blouse, her long braids pinned back in an elegant curl. Her expression is impossible to read. Connor can’t tell if she’s spent the day worrying about the fallout of her younger son’s actions or whether she has passed the hours dealing out solutions with a cool, calm hand. It doesn’t really matter. At the end of it all, there are going to be repercussions for what has been done, no matter how expertly his mother plays it.

For once, Niles’ face is the easier one to read. He looks deadly serious, his mouth a hardset line like a gash chiselled into marble. In between his eyebrows there is a tight, worried crease. Has he told their mother what he knows—or knew, might be more accurate, now the whole world is privy to the secret?

Connor feels feverish, hot and then a sudden, searing cold, like all the blood in his body has been replaced by a swoop of pure adrenaline. 

Amanda speaks first, taking a step forward.

“Good evening, Connor.”

Her voice is like ice, like tempered steel. The innocuousness of her words make them cut even deeper, a reminder of what could have been in a world where he was not so incredibly selfish. 

“Mother,” Connor replies. His voice shakes. “Niles.”

“You know why you’re here, of course,” she continues, her hands clasped primly in front of her.

Connor nods, just once. His legs are beginning to tremble beneath him. He wishes she would offer him a seat. 

“What you have done has injured our family.” 

Her words catch him like a fist against his jaw. All pleasantries have vanished, snatched from beneath his feet. A rapid plunge into reality. 

“The deception, Connor. The lies.” Something harsh is working its way into her voice, and Connor is reminded of Niles’ vitriolic questioning on that veranda in the Virginia mountains. Anger and betrayal, all dealt out by Connor’s own hand. “You must have known that your actions would have irreparable consequences,” she says, bitterly. 

Connor wonders how much information North has passed on—most of it, Connor can surmise, by the depth of the disappointment in his mother’s words. He doesn’t have enough energy to feel resentful towards North, or anyone else on his team. They were just doing their jobs.

Amanda moves closer to him. Despite her calm expression, Connor can feel the brittle anger and frustration rolling off her in waves. “You must have known that nothing good could possibly come from this.”

Nothing good. Connor sees the past year roll out before his eyes. _Nothing good._

 _Oh, but mother,_ he wants to say, _it_ was _good._

_It was so good that it grabbed hold of the pair of us with two strong hands and refused to let go; it dug in claws so sharp and sweet that we both risked our reputations for it. We endangered the integrity of whole countries. We risked ourselves._

It feels ridiculous to think about it now. How something so good could turn to little more than rubble, crumbled between his fingers.

“What were you thinking?” Amanda bites the question down around gritted teeth. The silence that follows is palpable, and it takes Connor a moment to realise that her question is far from rhetorical. She actually wants an answer. 

Connor stares wildly, speechlessly into her dark eyes. In the end, he gives the only answer he is able to muster.

“I’m sorry.”

It sounds pathetic. His mother ignores him. 

“The management of this is going to be virtually impossible. I hope you realise that.” Amanda points one long finger at him. The bright jewel in the ring on her thumb catches the light. Blue.

Connor clenches his jaw, hard. 

“I’m not going into the details of it now. I can’t.” Amanda clasps her hands again. “I only hope you’ll be grateful to me if I manage to pull anything favourable out of this mess you’ve created.” Then, as harshly and abruptly the conversation has begun, Amanda turns away from Connor. She gives Niles a curt little nod. “If you’ll excuse me.”

And she heads for the door. Connor doesn’t get anything, no nod, no cursory gesture. Just the sweep of air as she passes him and the memory of her crushing disappointment closing in around him like the walls of a dark tunnel.

The door closes a second later and there’s a brief pause before the sound of her footsteps disappear down the hall.

Connor had expected a much longer interrogation, the metaphorical torchlight of his mother’s questioning shone into his eyes. He had expected to divulge intimate details of his and Hank’s indiscretions, to have to put names and dates to each one of their clandestine meetings. 

In the end, he’s not sure which is worse. This way, he feels a further uncertainty resting upon his shoulders, another facet of unpredictability strung onto the future. 

“Where is she going?” Connor asks, his voice a small, confused wisp in the quiet room. 

“Mother called a press team meeting a little while ago,” Niles says. In the shadow of the window, his eyes seem very dark. “I think she wanted to clear up a few things with you first.”

Connor shrugs. His mother’s words are still stinging, salt poured onto an open wound. “I don’t think we really cleared anything up.”

“No,” Niles concedes. “I suppose not.”

It’s just the two of them now, standing in a stuffy silence that is so far removed from the vast mountain air that had surrounded them during their last private conversation. Had that really been the last time they had seen each other? It seems like years ago.

How much has changed since then. 

Connor wonders if Niles has some harsh words for him, his own anger to spout over Connor’s blind selfishness. He’s not sure he’ll be able to take any more. The weight of it is already braced across his shoulders, pressing like a fist at the base of his neck. 

“Were you with him this morning?” Niles asks, breaking the silence. “President Anderson?”

Connor nods in response, barely able to pull his gaze from the patterned carpet beneath his brother’s polished shoes.

It’s the first time that anyone has talked directly about Hank since Connor left DC that morning. A year’s worth of secrecy and veiled sweetness, stolen glances and fleeting touches where they thought the world would never see. Hank’s hands on Connor’s hips. 

They had woken up together. A dream long in the making. The warmth of a body beside his own, the gentle curve of the mattress pulling the two of them closer. He misses him.

“Did you tell him what I know?” Niles continues, shaking Connor from his reverie.

Connor remembers Hank’s voice that morning, hard with desperation and fear, completely at a loss for what to do next. 

“No. I didn’t.”

In a fairer world, they would have been allowed to brave this together, hand in hand, the face of their love enough, more than enough to push back against duty and tradition. 

But that’s not how this works. Fairness is an irrelevant concept.

Connor feels something begin to splinter inside him, slow at first, like the cracking of a rock face, the first sliding that might lead to the destruction of an avalanche. A wave that begins as no more than a ripple and swells in his stomach and his chest, until it feels like his ribcage might bow outwards.

A searing in his throat. Inevitable, embarrassing, utterly unstoppable. 

He begins to cry. 

“Oh, _god._ ” It falls in a gasp, pulled from the back of Connor’s throat. “I’m sorry.”

Niles’ eyes grow wide at Connor’s sudden display of emotion. It’s unheard of within the bounds of their relationship—their distant understanding, their empathetic acceptance—this kind of vulnerability. Part of Connor wishes that Niles would reach out and place a comforting hand on his arm, while another part wishes that he would just turn around and let Connor deal with all of this by himself. He swipes a hand across his eyes, finding his cheeks are wet with tears. It’s a relief, almost, to experience that rush of emotion after it had spent hours trapped behind the hard mask of his duty.

After a moment, Niles speaks. “Do you want to sit down?” 

Connor knows this is his brother’s way of offering comfort, even though Niles’ shoulders have grown so tight and brittle that Connor fears they might snap. 

“Yes, please.”

They move over to the small seating area, two armchairs and a low sofa, all finely upholstered in coral and gold. Several of their mother’s roses sit in a vase on the low mahogany coffee table, their blooms as wine-dark as blood. They sit together, knee to knee, and Connor resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. 

“What have I done, Niles?”

Niles doesn’t reply. Connor hadn’t expected him to. He feels small, and stupid, and like everything would be better if he just let the ground open up and swallow him whole. 

“I won’t pretend I know what’s going to happen next,” Niles says quietly. “But it might not be as bad as you think.”

Connor laughs, a small, tearful scoff. “You’re right. It might be worse.”

Niles doesn’t disagree. Connor is glad for his candour.

“I was so stupid,” Connor continues, staring down at his hands as they ball into tight, white fists. “Thinking that anything good would be able come of this.”

That’s the crux of it all, isn’t it? The hope that Connor had held inside, the frivolous thought that maybe one day he and Hank would be able to live without fear of discovery, with Hank’s arm proudly wrapped around Connor’s shoulder. 

“I suppose you were right,” he says, shaking his head. 

Niles frowns. “About what?”

“That we were stupid.” Connor spreads his fingers out over his knees. His tears have slowed now, gone as quickly as they’d come. “That we would get found out.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Connor can see Niles’ head tilt to one side, owlishly observant. 

“I don’t think I ever said that.”

A slow dawning memory, and Connor realises that that much is true. Despite Niles’ initial anger, he has guarded the secret as closely as if it was his own. 

“Are you angry with me, Niles?” Connor asks. He turns to look at his brother properly, and finds his face is calm, the smallest shimmer of something behind the grey of his eyes. At first, Connor wonders if it’s pity, but no. It’s not pity. It’s understanding. Empathy. Connor’s heart sings at the thought that he might just have someone on his side after all. 

“No. I’m not angry with you,” Niles explains, and Connor’s heart turns a neat, joyful wheel against his sternum.

“Thank you, Niles.”

Niles raises a long, white hand. On his little finger he wears a gold sovereign ring, their father’s, embossed with their family crest. 

“Please don’t misunderstand me,” he says. “I _was_ angry. Terribly so. But I’m not angry anymore.” Niles reaches out and places one hand gently on Connor’s wrist. His fingers are cool and the softness and unexpectedness of the contact is almost enough to make Connor start crying again. “I thought a lot about what you said, Connor, that night in Shenandoah. About duty. About honesty.” Niles pauses, and Connor watches something tight move in his jaw. “About love.”

Connor waits with bated breath, hardly daring to speak over what Niles might have to say next. 

“I’ve seen the change in you, Connor. Since all of this began.” Niles withdraws his hand from Connor’s arm and folds his fingers into a neat steeple, resting them in his lap. The next question comes at Connor hard and frank, with an ungilded bluntness that is characteristic of his older brother. “You really love him, don’t you?” 

It takes Connor by surprise. Niles regards him with his cool, grey gaze, waiting for an answer. 

“Yes. I do.” It feels like speaking further might cause cracks in the shaking façade that he’s managed to build back up, but he knows that his brother is expecting more than just three words as an answer. “I love him very much. It feels—” A deep breath, a shudder, and why not throw it all to the winds? “In some way it feels like all of this was meant to happen. Like we couldn’t have stopped this even if we’d tried.”

Connor remembers the same words from Hank’s mouth, less than twenty-four hours ago. He tries to let the memory galvanise him, rather than drawing its barbs across the softest part of his heart.

“Well then,” Niles says, with a curt nod. His gaze is averted now, staring out of the window out at the city’s twinkling skyline. “I know that once the palace would have sought to stand in the way of this kind of… unconventional partnership. Myself included. But standing in the face of love? Of fate, I suppose, if you believe in that? It feels like a fool’s errand.”

Niles’ words take Connor by the shoulders and hold on tight, a comforting warmth that scratches the surface of the turmoil rolling inside him. He wonders if this softness and sympathy has always existed in Niles—burned in deeper than the hard shell of his duty and dignity, pressed down further and further by the passage of the years. It glows now, nonetheless, and beneath his gratefulness, Connor feels sad that he hasn’t often seen this side of his brother before.

“In our interests of modernisation,” Niles continues, “I shall stand with you. I will stand with you as far as I can.”

Of course, it’s a double-edged sword. It always is. Connor knows how to manage his expectations with regards to his family and the endlessly complicated institution within which they conduct themselves.

“Thank you, Niles,” Connor says, and he means it. 

“You’re welcome.”

A long moment passes between them, and Connor watches as the red lights of an airplane track across the sky. They seem hopeful, perhaps, a tiny pinprick of light at the end of a very long tunnel. 

Niles shifts, smoothing out the front of his trousers. 

“You know, they’re calling you the next Monica Lewinsky.”

Despite himself, Connor laughs. It doesn’t feel good, exactly, but he appreciates Niles’ attempt to make light of the situation. 

“That’s not funny.”

“No, of course not,” Niles says, and Connor is certain that he can see the hint of a smile turning his brother’s mouth. “All of this is far more interesting. And besides, you don’t have to deal with any of that horrible nineties fashion.”

Before Connor can think of an appropriate retort, there’s a knock at the door. Ever trained in their etiquette, both Niles and Connor get to their feet, watching warily as the door opens. 

Their mother’s private secretary is standing in the doorway, and the look that he shoots Connor is positively poisonous. His mother is behind him, her face as concerned as Connor has ever seen it. Any brightness or levity that might have found its way into the room is quickly drawn out. In its place, a pervasive gloom, the knowledge of the strange reality that they find themselves in.

Amanda steps over the threshold, her hands behind her back. She has the air of a brusque sergeant-major, battle-worn, delivering a message to the troops. Connor’s not really sure if he wants to hear it or not.

“Niles. Connor.” 

Her private secretary stands to one side, pushing the door open a little wider. Behind the pair of them, Connor can see the anxious shadows of the other palace staff. 

“We’ve just had news that President Anderson is broadcasting a speech from DC,” she says. “I think perhaps you should see it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was heavier with emotion than anything i've ever written before, so thank you once again to Bee for editing this piece with me!
> 
> thank you for reading!!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "President Anderson is broadcasting a speech from DC,” Amanda says. “I think perhaps you should see it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologise for the length of time it took to put out this chapter, but you know - real life! and plus, i wanted it to be just right. i hope you enjoy!
> 
> as always a huge and overwhelmed thank you to Bee for helping me edit this story and for teaching me SO GODDAMN MUCH.

The palace corridors seem to narrow in around Connor as he’s led in the direction of the largest drawing room. Dark oil paintings leer down from their places on the heavy wooden panelling, his distant ancestors staring at him from all sides—pale, judgemental faces rising above white collars, silks shining in the lamplight. As if this whole thing needed any more gravitas, as if his heart could be beating any faster in the flushed cavern of his chest.

Across the sea, President Anderson is waiting to address the world, and the words he chooses will roll through history. It’s a bold move, to address his indiscretions directly rather than through the guise of representatives and clever tricks in the press. A bold move but a characteristic one, given the President’s confidence and his desire for transparency. There is a small, secret part of Connor that is simply looking forward to hearing his voice again.

His mother barely glances at him as they walk, turning instead to her press secretary and talking in a hushed, secretive tone: muttered predictions about what the President might have to say, an endlessly shifting configuration of possible outcomes and gaping pitfalls. Connor twists his fingers into tight knots and does his best not to listen. Half overheard snippets are worth very little, and besides, nothing that he might understand from their conversation is going to change his reality.

Niles follows behind them, quietly austere, his hands clasped in front of him. Softness and light forced back down behind the ice king’s infamous glacial exterior.

When they enter the drawing room, Connor can see that it has been turned into a bustling press hub. In less than half a day, the usually impeccable room—reserved for engagements of state and post-dinner conversations—has been taken over by a crowd of busy palace staff. The polished oak table is strewn with tablets and notepads, laptops running simultaneous news feeds, newspapers showing those same damned pictures over and over and over. 

There are a few faces that he knows well. At the back of the room, North is seated with Niles’ chief of staff, instantly recognisable by her shock of red hair and the intense, concentrated look on her face. She must have been directed here after they exited the car at the palace gates. The rest of the press secretaries look harried; surely this, of all things, was never on their roster of predicted crises. 

Throughout the room, there’s a low hum of steady, focused chatter, like bees around a hive. 

The sound makes Connor’s nerves tick up to an even higher degree. News of their affair broke just over twelve hours ago. Connor imagines all these people pulled in from all the corners of the city, uprooted from their current projects to come and sort out his unbelievable, ridiculous problems. 

They are all here for him. Guilt boils in his stomach, sick and bilious, and were it not for the irresistible pull of seeing Hank speak, he might have just given into temptation and set off in the other direction as quickly as possible.

Their arrival is a pebble dropped into a simmering pool. As soon as the door closes behind them, the purposeful noise in the room begins to die down, ripples of silence spreading until every eye in the room is trained on them. Everyone is looking at Connor, really, their libertine prince, shamefully returned to his isles with a trail of destruction in his wake.

Amanda clears her throat. 

“I’d appreciate an update, if that’s not too much to ask.” 

Her voice is cold and scathing, and there’s a sudden shuffling of papers and a tapping of keys as those gathered scramble to remember the job at hand. 

It doesn’t take long before a small crowd has gathered around Amanda, presenting her with their updates, documents and social media feeds, recently published articles from all over the world. It seems impossible that anything could have actually changed in the ten minutes it took her to fetch Connor and Niles, but news moves at a lightning pace these days, beaming in from all angles. 

Niles stands at Connor’s side, close enough to touch. The king has never really involved himself in this kind of intensive media management. That’s always been Amanda’s job, ever since Connor and Niles were children and the mantle of kingship rested upon their father’s shoulders. She is their matriarch, after all, the brains behind the operation, the one who gilds the lily of her sons’ public engagements. Of all their scandals, too: past, present, potential. Those that come out of the deepest, most treacherous blue.

Connor has never been so glad for Niles’ distance in these particular matters. He doesn’t think he would be able to cope standing here by himself, waiting for the President’s speech, being given a wide and conspicuous berth by all assembled, like a tiger in a zoo. 

The pressure of waiting becomes heavy and unbearable against Connor’s chest, and he considers casting a hand out to take hold of Niles’ elbow. His fingers twitch. 

There is a sudden call from the other side of the room.

“It’s about to start!”

The shout filters down from a station beneath one of the high, dark windows. It rolls through the room like a nuclear blast—a great silence, and then a booming rush of noise as everyone scrambles to gather around the screen, or hastily navigates to bring up the right feed on their own devices. 

In the midst of the action, Connor finds himself frozen to the spot. The moment rings through him, long and piercing, his brain seemingly unable to make any kind of connection to his legs and move him across the room. He can’t even fathom how the President must be feeling. That slow walk up to the podium, the intensity of the world’s spotlight shining down on him. Is he nervous? His team must have prepared him an armour-clad speech, full of quotations and neat soundbites for the media. 

Is he thinking about Connor?

There’s barely enough time to contemplate the question. A hush falls over the drawing room; a crackling of static, microphone feedback. And then Connor hears it. A familiar voice beamed over thousands of miles.

“Thank you.”

Hank. 

His Hank. 

Connor’s head snaps up. A bright flood of adrenaline, a hot rush that pulls him instantly from his icy reverie, dragging him unceremoniously into the present. He can see a few screens from where he’s standing, but none of them are clear enough, there is no vantage point that will allow him to hang onto Hank’s every word. He needs to see him properly. 

The thought urges him desperately forward. With a few quick strides he crosses the room, heading for where the largest group is gathered, shoulder to shoulder around a computer screen. 

“Please let me through,” Connor says. 

There’s something high and panicked in his voice, and it takes only a moment for the huddle to part for him. Voices mutter on either side: _It’s the Prince. Let him see._ The eyes that find his own become wide and astonished, the other half of this scandal entering their midst to watch the unravelling of his own personal history. 

Someone gets up from their chair and lets Connor take it. As he sits, his whole body shakes like a leaf in a storm.

Right there, on the screen. Close enough to touch. The sight of Hank makes Connor certain, just for a moment, that his heart has stopped. A stilling in his chest, his breath caught between his lungs. 

Hank is standing in front of a podium, set up in what must be the White House’s private press room. Behind Hank, the shiny blue backdrop glints white with the occasional camera flash. The close camera angle—Hank and half of the presidential seal that adorns the podium creeping in at the bottom of the screen—makes it impossible to tell how many people are in the room. That probably doesn’t matter. The whole world is watching. 

Hank looks good. Tired, Connor thinks, but good—confident, and at first glance, something dangerously close to unfazed. He’s wearing a black suit and a white shirt, crisp and simple; a tie the colour of spilled ink. To extend the simplicity, he has forgone lapel pins, badges, indicators of his patriotism and status. But beneath his calm exterior, there is a marked tension in his shoulders and hands that Connor understands like a whispered secret. If only he could press his hand to Hank’s upper back and feel some of that stress seep away.

It’s strange to think that they were together only that morning. When Connor woke up, he was close enough to kiss Hank’s face. Now, he watches him as if through glass. Across an ocean. Across a thousand other barriers that he doesn’t know if he will ever be able to surmount.

Then Hank’s hands tighten on the edge of the podium, and all of Connor’s musings vanish into thin air. 

He begins without ceremony. 

“I never imagined I would be before you today. But I’m glad I am.”

Hank glances down for a moment, gathering himself. When he looks back up, his eyes are so blue and his gaze so powerful that it strikes Connor directly in his heart.

God, he loves him. No matter what Hank says. No matter what he says, no matter the outcome, Connor loves him.

“I have spent my whole life serving this country,” Hank continues, his voice steady, like it’s being pressed down with a shaking hand. “In the army, as a congressman, as a senator, and I have always felt deeply honoured to be able to do so. When I was first elected to public office over twenty years ago, I swore to myself that integrity would be the pillar of all my campaigns. It was with this same honesty that I was elected as your President, and it was with honesty that I continued to lead you.”

The silence between Hank’s words rests on Connor’s shoulders. He leans forward in his seat, dreading what is to come, desperate for more.

“I have built my entire career on truth and transparency. Through my own actions alone, I have compromised that trust.”

Hank slides one of his notecards to the back of the small stack. There’s a sliver of worry beginning to show in his calm, a hairline fracture in the steadiest stone. He’s approaching the heart of the matter now, the confession, words that have been brewing for almost a year.

“This morning, photographs were released showing myself and His Royal Highness, Prince Connor Stern. There have been suggestions circulated that these photographs were falsified or that I was in some way manipulated into the situation shown.” Something in Hank’s throat shifts. “This is not the case. Those photographs show something entirely real and consensual.” 

There’s an audible chattering from the press gathered before Hank, an uptick in the amount of camera flashes reflecting on his face. Connor presses his hands together in a tight, painful grip. He can hardly believe what he’s hearing.

“This morning, after the photographs were printed, I spoke to my son on the phone. Cole will be eleven in September. I’ve always tried to be a good role model for him, to instill in him important values: kindness, tolerance, openness. So I feel very lucky that, despite my initial dishonesty, I have been given the chance to explain myself today. 

“Since September of last year, I have been in a relationship with Prince Connor Stern. We have communicated privately during our time apart; we have spent time together during international engagements.”

A beat passes. The promise of what is to come shivers in the air. 

“I am in love with him.”

More muffled shouts come from the assembled crowd, questions that simply cannot be held in, cameras clicking and flashing. Whatever they thought that the President would say, it certainly wasn’t this. 

Connor’s breath draws in tight at the top of his lungs. 

“I never expected this to happen,” Hank continues. “I never expected to fall in love.” 

As Hank speaks—about love, oh _god_ , as he tells the entire world how he is in love with Connor—there’s a slight catch in his voice, barely there, the fluttering of tears. Connor can feel it burn right through into his own chest. He lets it rise, unable to do anything to stop it.

He wishes it were only him and Hank left in the world.

“I understand that it is a love which compromises my position in many ways. When the news broke this morning, I listened to my head first. I acted cruelly, perhaps, and ruthlessly. I ignored my heart, forgetting its importance. It didn’t take long for me to realise how insincere it would be to hide myself in the face of what I truly wanted. It would have only been another lie. And I do not want to lie. ”

Connor remembers the bite in Hank’s voice as he had sent Connor away from his rooms that morning. That very same morning—a place that seems like a lifetime ago. The vulnerable truth of his emotions was pressed down beneath the initial expectations of his duty, and now he’s releasing it in front of the whole, watching world.

“This truth is unexpected, perhaps it is inconvenient. I know it is strange and I know that there will be those who will disagree with my decision here today. But I simply cannot ignore it.”

Hank pauses again, and there’s a clench in his jaw beneath the trim silver of his beard. Connor presses his fingers against his own lips, and he can taste the thundering of his heartbeat, rolling anticipation, the shuddering of his nerves.

Then Hank speaks, and Connor’s heart bursts. 

“I intend to continue my relationship with Prince Connor.” 

A high, broken sound, a gasping sob. Connor barely realises it has come from his own mouth. 

“If that is what he wants. If he will take me.”

If anyone turns to look at Connor, he doesn’t notice. He is drawn into Hank entirely, captured by the vulnerability in his voice and the determined glimmer in his eyes. 

_If he will take me._

Hank doesn’t want to end things. He wants to continue their relationship, and more than that, he wants everyone to know about the truth of the glorious, tender thing that they have found and nurtured over the past year. He wants to be together, to live on without the fear of discovery, to be open and honest. Connor has never loved Hank more than in this moment.

The noise of the White House press room gradually dies down, and Hank continues speaking.

“Despite these changes in circumstance, I remain accountable to the people, and to their representatives. I will submit myself to any internal investigation, and I assure you that I have nothing further to hide. Neither Prince Connor nor I have committed any crimes.”

Connor is not sure exactly what an internal investigation might entail. International scrutinisation of their correspondence, perhaps, or a tight schedule of interviews, long hours unravelling their encounters to make sure that no state secrets were exchanged in their time together. He isn’t worried. 

“January would mark the start of my third year as your President,” Hank continues. “I would like to see out my term and continue to serve the people of this country. If the House deems that inappropriate, then I will, of course, resign.”

The knowledge that Hank would give it all up races through Connor’s lungs in one sharp breath. In the few hours they’ve been apart, Hank has made this incredible, life changing decision. That courage settles around Connor’s heart—a golden talisman, a bright, burning strength that he will carry with him forever. 

“I know that there are people who will say that I have let my country down.” As Hank speaks, a pale, wounded sheen drapes itself over his expression. “I regret any lies, and I know full well that this apology will only go a short way towards repairing what has been a year of deception. I accept that. But I have not let anyone down by falling in love.”

Something subtle shifts in Hank’s features, a brightness glowing beneath his professional demeanor.

“Love and kindness are some of the most important things in this world.” 

Hank’s truth shines so clearly. It blazes in his words, flickers in the smile that plays at the corners of his mouth. He looks bold; his voice is brave.

“It is with love that I have served this country. It is with an open, honest heart that I lead the people, and it was with this same heart that I fell in love with Prince Connor.”

There is it again. Connor’s pulse surges just as wildly as the first time.

“I think I have been clear enough in my intentions here today,” Hank says, and he neatens the small pile of notecards before him. “I will not be answering any questions. Thank you.”

Hank gives a short nod of farewell before turning to exit from behind the podium. The press room—thousands of miles away, shattered by the flashing of cameras—descends into a sudden uproar, dozens of voices firing hundreds of questions, despite the President’s desire for the contrary. Hank leaves, and Connor misses him.

There’s a five-second shot of the empty stage, the ghostly watermark of the White House on the dark blue backdrop, and the remaining hubbub of the press pit below. 

Connor’s mind is strangely still. He feels like a bubble of calm has settled inside him, a paper-thin sphere of tranquility, ready to be destroyed at any second by the inevitable rush of reality.

The screen switches back to the British news anchor, looking taken aback and professional against her backdrop of red and white. Connor braces himself for that crashing wall of noise as everyone runs to their stations, ready to take notes from broadcasts from all over the world, ready to check newsfeeds and social media accounts and take part in international correspondence. 

Instead, the room is quite quiet. 

Connor can feel every single eye trained on him. The weight of what has just happened begins to spread out over his skin, incremental at first, and then a great, seething rush of adrenaline that makes sparks shake right to the tips of his fingers. He wishes that he were alone. Or better yet, he wishes that he were by Hank’s side, kissing the admissions of love from his mouth. 

There’s a hand on Connor’s shoulder. Perhaps suddenly, or perhaps the person has been standing there for a long time. He turns his gaze—slender fingers, dark skin, the shine of silver and bright blue jewels. 

His mother addresses the silent, watchful crowd. 

“Well. I expect you all have things to do, in light of that.”

There’s a shuffling of papers, a movement of feet. It’s nothing like the eager scramble that greeted Amanda when she first entered the drawing room accompanied by her sons—Connor can sense furtive glances that linger on him, puzzled brows cocked in his direction. Questioning eyes, wondering exactly what Amanda is going to have to say to Connor in the aftermath of the President’s confession. He tries to keep his face as calm as possible, but he can feel the tracks of his tears beginning to dry on flushed cheeks. Far from a composed façade. 

Composure be damned. At the end of the day, damn composure and calmness, damn appearances. The light at the end of the tunnel, little more than a watery shimmer at the start of the day, has begun to shine brighter now. He locks his hands together, tight, and his knuckles begin to go white. 

“Come with me,” Amanda says, and her grip grows firmer on Connor’s shoulder.

Standing costs Connor a great deal of effort. He feels as though his body has been hollowed out, made lighter than air, and he’s certain his limbs won't be strong enough to carry him out of the room alongside his mother. 

He makes it, fortunately, by some unknowable feat of strength. Over the shifting heads, through the increasing buzz of conversation, Connor catches North’s eye. She gives him a strange look: part confusion, part incredulity, and part something unknown, fluttering beneath her features. It could be anger, the morning’s fury only burnt in deeper and deeper by the passage of the day. Connor hopes not. He hopes the small quirk of her mouth holds some disbelieving joy, happiness at the bizarre turn in this tale. 

Amanda stops Niles on their way out—the brush of her fingers at the crook of his elbow.

“Would you stay here, please?” Amanda asks, and Niles inclines in his head in stoic agreement. If he is disappointed to be left out of the conversation, he doesn’t show it.

“Will you be long?” he asks. 

“I don’t imagine so,” Amanda answers.

She glances at Connor. He knows that his mother will gift him a feast or she will run him through with the cruellest famine. As they make their way out of the drawing room and into one of the smaller antechambers, the uncertainty about the matter is gunfire rattling in the pit of Connor’s stomach. He tries very hard not to focus on what his mother might have to say to him, instead clinging to the memory of Hank on the screen before him. His neat black suit, his blue eyes. He pulls Hank’s words close to his thrumming heart. _I am in love with him._

The room that Amanda has chosen is far less formal than her usual meeting spaces: there are no high windows, no lavish tea sets, no slanting sunlight or the smell of fresh roses. It’s a small kitchen space, used by the palace staff for preparation and clean up when there are events in the main drawing room. There’s a table and two chairs set beneath the ceiling lamp, which glows low and golden, a single spot of light.

It only seems natural that the denouement of such a strange event should take place in the most unlikely of settings.

“Take a seat,” Amanda instructs, gesturing with an open palm. Connor joins her at the table. In the polished grain of the wood, he can see the reflection of the light from above—like a halo, like a sun.

She begins calmly, with her hands folded neatly in her lap. “I would like to apologise for earlier. My anger was unseemly. But I’m sure you can appreciate how taken aback I was when I saw those pictures in the paper this morning.”

Connor bows his head shamefully. “I’m sorry.” 

“You know that would have been so much easier to handle if you had just told someone. Before the news had to break in such a ridiculous manner.”

“I—” He looks back up, the mere insinuation causing a flutter of nerves in his stomach. “I—Mother, I didn’t know how to tell anyone.”

He remembers how closely he had guarded their secret, how tightly he had clutched it over his heart, and he strings four silent words to the end of his sentence. _I didn’t want to._

Amanda makes a short, noncommittal noise. “All the same. We could have averted quite such a crisis, I think.” 

She sits back and considers him for a moment.

“The President is very clever.” It is impossible to tell whether she deems this to be a compliment or not. “His speech has thrown the ball right into our court.”

Connor keeps his eyes trained on one of the cabinets just beyond his mother’s head and focuses on the sound of her voice over the rushing of the blood in his ears. 

“The world will be waiting on a response from us now. From you, Connor. So.” She leans forwards ever slightly, her brow serious in the low light. “I would like you to tell me what happened.” 

And Connor tells her. At first, it feels like prying a pearl from inside an oyster shell, a reluctant secret that clings tightly to the rungs of his ribcage. But as he talks, the pressure lessens, and some of the weight starts to lift off his shoulders. He tells her about that night in Hank’s office, about the secret darkness of the Highlands and the sunny floorboards in Hank’s Texas bedroom. When he tells her about the secret handset Hank had sent him, her eyes widen a touch, as shocked as he has seen her in all this. 

It’s little more than a brief overview of their relationship, the barest bones, but it’s enough. It’s enough for Amanda, and she nods understandingly as Connor finishes with his explanation of their evening on the balcony. It’s enough for Connor. It’s enough to comfort him and to console him. His and Hank’s paths—intertwining, crossing, distanced—have finally joined, and Connor wants nothing more than to embark, alongside him, in this brand new direction. 

Connor’s stories hang in the air between them, lighter and brighter now that they are out in the open. 

“Thank you for sharing that with me, Connor,” Amanda says, after a beat.

Connor isn’t sure whether he deserves her thanks, but he doesn’t argue. 

“I believe that some of President Anderson’s words may have been rather forward,” Amanda continues, “stating that he intends to continue a relationship with you when he knows nothing of how you feel—”

“Mother, I—” 

Connor blurts out the words before he can stop himself. After all that, after baring the entire soul of their story, the suggestion that he might feel anything other than admiration for Hank’s bravery, anything other than love and an overwhelming desire to be with him, makes his chest constrict. It pushes his desperate words forward, past the polite barrier of his closed lips. 

Amanda barely reacts to his interruption. All she has to do is raise one long finger, lightly clear her throat, and it’s enough to stop Connor in his tracks. Of course, as in any and all situations, he knows better than to interrupt her. Frustration closes its fists behind his lungs. 

“Stating that he intends to continue his relationship with you when he knows nothing of how you are feeling would be presumptuous,” Amanda repeats. “But… I don’t think that’s the case. I think perhaps he knows exactly how you’re feeling.”

Connor doesn’t dare speak. 

“President Anderson said that he would continue his relationship with you _if_ you wanted to. Do you want to?”

There’s no need for Connor to formulate an answer. It flies from him. 

“Yes. Yes, Mother. I want to be with him.”

Amanda regards him with an unreadable expression, her gaze level and calculating. Connor can practically hear the mechanisms of palace publicity whirring in her head, and he has the sharp, terrible feeling that she’s about to deliver a destructive hammerblow to all his trembling hopes.

“Are you in love with him?” Amanda asks.

It’s not exactly the deadly strike that Connor had expected. He nods. 

“I’m in love with him.”

“And he knows this?”

“I think he does, yes.”

Amanda raises her eyebrows. 

“You _think_?”

Connor swallows. He pulls the image of Hank’s face to the front of his mind, shadows and planes in the distant light from the White House bedroom. Connor’s own words fall alongside. _I love you. I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time._

He lets his words fill with his conviction.

“I love him. He knows I love him.” 

“Would you be prepared to defend your relationship publicly, in front of the world?” Amanda asks. “As President Anderson did today?”

Connor imagines standing before a host of cameras, immaculate and nervous, his image beamed out to millions of people. It’s been decades since he’s had to make a public address in such a way, and he can’t stop the nauseous swoop in his stomach at the thought of it.

At the end of it all, though, what do his nerves matter? Connor knows the blue of Hank’s eyes in his kindest, most vulnerable moments. He knows the touch of his hand, he knows it rough and soft, and so achingly tender that it makes Connor’s chest hurt just to think about it. He knows how good Hank is. How they make each other laugh.

What wouldn’t he do to be at Hank’s side? 

Connor gives a firm nod. 

“I would be prepared to do that.”

Amanda’s brow furrows slightly, considering the implications of his answer. Connor wishes he could climb inside the jigsaw of her thoughts, just for this moment, and place himself in amongst the intricacy of the pieces. Almost half a minute passes before she speaks again.

“Okay.”

Amanda’s answer is so curt and short that Connor isn’t sure he’s understood her correctly.

“What?”

Her lips purse, as if she is considering chastising him for his bluntness and then thinking better of it.

“Okay, Connor,” she elaborates, choosing each of her words with practised precision. “If this is something that you believe to be… sustainable, then I think it is in our family’s best interests to find some way for you to see it through.”

The implications are laid out in labyrinthine coils, hard for Connor to decipher when his mind is filled with the sound of his own heartbeat, humming somewhere beneath his tongue. Amanda folds her hands on the table, glancing down momentarily at her fingers, at the way her rings catch the light.

“This year has certainly been one for… adaptation. For change.” Amanda speaks the words as though they’re still unfamiliar, part of a new, modern language that she isn’t fluent in. “Judging by public opinion, and following the President’s speech today, it would certainly damage our image to force the two of you to end your relationship.”

Of course, it all boils down to their image, and the way their crystalline reputation will be buffed by the media. For once, Connor doesn’t care. It’s the end of his mother’s sentence that catches him, sharp as a fish hook snagged beneath his diaphragm. 

“Are you saying that Hank and I—” Connor clears his throat. His words feel as though they’re made of honey, sticking behind his teeth. “Are you saying that Hank and I would be allowed to continue our relationship? With the palace’s blessing?”

“Yes, Connor,” Amanda nods, sage and serene in the golden light. “I suppose that is what I’m saying.”

Connor nods. All his words leave him in a sudden, thoughtless rush. 

Hank. 

Hank by his side. 

The length of a lifetime.

The glaze of tears threatens suddenly at the corner of Connor’s vision, a fierce prickling at the bridge of his nose. He’s determined not to cry for the third time in as many hours, but the truth of the situation lays itself over his shoulders and cups warm hands around his heart, and he can barely contain himself. 

“There will have to be investigations, of course, to confirm that nothing untoward was taking place in the time that you were together,” Amanda says, ignoring the gloss shining in her son’s eyes. “Both of you have a lot of secrets to keep.”

“Yes.” Connor lowers his head. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Mother.”

“I’m not promising anything yet, Connor.” His mother raises a finger, a cautionary reminder for Connor not to get his hopes up. “But I am glad to have a direction for this. We will do what we can.”

Amanda stands, smoothing the creases out of her trousers. She looks utterly unaffected, as poised as ever. Connor feels as if he’s gone several rounds in a boxing ring—his secrets gutted, his tenderest emotions pulled out for scrutiny. 

But hope shines on the horizon. In the end, it might just all be worth it.

“We’ve kept the press room waiting for long enough,” she says, gesturing towards the door. “Niles will be wondering where we are.”

As Connor gets to his feet, he can’t help but think about the conversation that his mother expected to have when she closed the door behind them half an hour ago. Evidently she is thinking the same thing.

“I hope you will thank the President when you next see him,” Amanda says, pausing with her fingers resting on the door handle. “His boldness and foresight have allowed quite a different outcome to the one I anticipated.” 

“I will,” Connor replies, nodding. He imagines the embrace of Hank’s arms, kissing his gratitude into every line of his face.

For the next few hours, everything seems to move very quickly. Connor is glad of it. 

Amanda’s return to the drawing room is like the click of a missing cog back into a finely oiled machine. As she makes her way around, Connor watches the faces that turn in his direction—how they regard him at first with a clear, obvious surprise, and then he dares to see some flickering lights of something like happiness. Something supportive. Thankful that Prince Connor returns the President’s feelings, that they get to put a positive and hopeful message out into the world.

Connor stands in the doorway, unsure of what to do next. It feels odd, to have a decision that is so entirely his own taken from his hands and thrust into the palace’s whirring press machine. In a normal world, a relationship like this would have been worked out between him and Hank alone, a private to and fro. Here, the stakes are high, each player around the table with their own hand, with their own part in moving the pieces.

It doesn’t take long for Niles to find him. Connor recounts his conversation with their mother, and Niles’ eyes grow wide. He listens, appropriately rapt, and when Connor is finished, he presses his hand against Connor’s wrist.

“And how do you feel about it all?” Niles asks. 

Connor has to think very carefully about that one. All of his emotions from the past day have been whipped up inside him, a great, eddying whirlpool, until all he can feel is the empty calmness resting in the eye of the storm.

“It’s hard to say,” Connor replies, after a moment. “I’m confused. I’m happy.”

Niles nods. Connor doesn’t think his explanation is particularly illuminating, but he’s glad for his brother’s sympathy nonetheless. 

“It’s a good thing,” Niles says. “I’m glad for you.”

Connor tries not to think of his brother on that windswept American veranda: hurt etched deep into his features, his brow shadowed by the mantle of his duty. Niles has never been the sort to speak sycophantically so Connor knows that he means what he says, but it doesn’t ease that hot kernel of compassion and empathy that sears in the pit of Connor’s stomach.

“I think they’ll be working for a while yet,” Niles continues. “If you like, we could take tea in my rooms.”

Connor accepts the offer with some initial hesitancy. _Tea_ has so often been a family code for _tea and weighted, complex diplomatic conversation_ and he doesn’t have the energy to wring anything more out of today’s events. But when they settle in Niles’ rooms and a member of his staff brings them a steaming teapot on a silver tray, Niles doesn’t let his words grow heavy. 

“It’s rather late for tea,” he comments, once the tea has brewed dark enough to be poured into their cups. “Stranger things have happened today, I suppose.”

And he leaves it at that. It’s nice to sit quietly for once, just the two of them—no newspapers strewn across the table, no maze of politics or other motives lurking behind the initial niceties. Connor knows that, in the past, Niles would have never entertained him like this. He’s always saved his quota of small talk for visiting dignitaries, and over the years, with Connor’s distance from the palace, their relationship has fallen into something constantly scarred by the knowledge of their duties. 

The feel of a fraternal hand on his shoulder is an unexpected consequence of all this, but certainly not an unwelcome one. 

Their mother finds them almost exactly an hour later. It’s a strange mirror to her earlier entrance—the firm rap on the door before it swings open, the palpable rise in tension as Connor and Nile rise to their feet in her presence. Again, her private secretary precedes her, although this time, Connor is spared his venomous glance in exchange for an expression closer to one of abject shock. 

Tiredness creeps in around the edges of their mother’s features, a rare sight and a sign that it’s been a truly exhausting day. Judging by the gilded clock on the mantelpiece, it’s gone midnight. Connor can’t help the guilt that gnaws at his gut.

“We’ve just had the White House on the phone.”

Amanda jumps into the depth of the conversation so quickly that it’s like being plunged suddenly into cold water. The quiet calm that Connor had enjoyed with Niles disappears in a sudden lurch, and he has to take a second to right himself.

“Oh?”

“You’ll be glad to know that they’re in a similar position to us.”

Connor frowns, confused, and Amanda elaborates. 

“They’re somewhat taken aback by the whole thing,” she says, and from her tone, Connor can tell that that is a dramatic understatement. “But, conditions withstanding, they’re willing to accept the President’s wishes, as we are yours.”

The relief that floods Connor is so acute that it’s a wonder his knees don’t collapse beneath him. So Hank’s words have been listened to, his teams of publicists have deemed it wisest to allow them to take those first steps towards continuing their relationship. No doubt there will be those on either side of the ocean who will object to their choices, outspoken and hate-filled, but the fact that private and public support is swaying in their favour makes Connor’s heart grow light.

Connor’s not quite sure how long he stays quiet, struck from above by a bolt that makes him feel gold-gilded, sharper and luckier than he’s ever been in his life. In the end, it is Niles who breaks the silence, speaking from his place at Connor’s side.

“So, what’s next?” 

“We’ve organised a press conference,” Amanda replies, not looking towards her elder son. “The President will come here in a few days, to London.”

Hank in the grey streets, in the green parks. Hank beside Connor as they face the world’s questions. It seems like the most perfect of options. 

“I expect you to afford everyone the honesty that you promised me, Connor,” Amanda says, her gaze cool and dangerous.

It really hits home, then, just how much has been put on the line for him—how much is being risked, how much he needs to get right. Loving Hank will not be enough, not yet, at least. Outside the confines of his own heart, he has to make that love eloquent and transparent, he has to polish it for the whole world to see.

There is no time for trepidation. Connor nods in agreement. 

“Good,” Amanda says. “We’ve got a small media team coming in overnight. I think everyone needs to get some sleep after today.”

Today: a lynchpin stuck into the fabric of history, a point around which their past and future will warp and revolve. It still doesn’t feel real.

“Connor,” Amanda continues, already turning towards the door, “we will have a room made up for you. We can discuss this further in the morning.”

Before Amanda leaves, she places her hand lightly on Connor’s shoulder. The wordless gesture may not speak forgiveness or approval, but there is a gentle acceptance in her that Connor could never have imagined twenty-four hours ago, lying in the bough of Hank’s arms, desperately praying that their secret would be buried forever.

That night, Connor’s dreams are frantic and restless. Endless streams of corridors that lead to busy press rooms, cameras flashing in the periphery of his vision. It’s the first time in years that he has stayed overnight in the palace. He tosses and turns in the finest of sheets, yearning for familiar visions of blue eyes and strong hands. 

The next few days are agony. Connor has express orders to stay within the walls of the palace, and he’s advised—although really it’s just another order—to avoid news reports and social media as much as possible. It’s difficult. Every television channel in the country seems to be running hourly reports plastered with Connor’s face, and Hank’s, and littered with snippets of Hank’s speech. 

Newspapers and websites post endless photos and videos beneath new bylines: _The Prince and The President, A Timeline_ and _“I am in love with him”: A Modern Romance_. Scrolling news tickers print the public’s support alongside their cynicism, as though they have all the right in the world to weigh in on what should be the most private of affairs. 

In the end, Connor considers bolting the door to his room and retiring to his bed for the next forty-eight hours.

He wishes that there was some way he could get in contact with Hank, but he has to surrender all of his devices for scrutiny. Reluctantly, he removes Hank’s private phone from the inside of his suitcase and presses it into the waiting hand of one of his mother’s aides. It’s deeply embarrassing, knowing that there will be teams of people both in the palace and across the ocean analysing reams of their correspondence, from the innocuous to the intimate. 

Connor tries very hard not to relive any of their conversations, doing his best not to predict the weighted words that will be beamed onto computer screens and passed through like any other set of data. A member of the media team asks him intrusive questions about their conversations, a neat list of dates and times stamped out before them. It’s all very novel, as he tries to find a professional way to avoid saying the words _phone sex_ beneath the palace’s fine ceilings.

He would laugh, if it wasn’t so mortifying.

At last, the day of the press conference dawns, blazing and bright. It’s the hottest day of the year so far, and the grey city glows white under the bluest of skies. Connor dresses carefully, a short sleeved linen shirt and pressed trousers, with his hair slicked back from his face. Clean and inoffensive, lest the power of his words be shadowed by any attempt at a fashion statement.

The press conference will be held on the most neutral ground possible, the United States embassy in Vauxhall. It’s a smart move, Connor thinks, a sign of unity and an acknowledgement both that this event concerns their countries equally, and that it should be removed from any nation at all. A shiny American island floating in the sea of the capital, rather than some renovated Victorian hotel, all high ceilings and chandeliers.

Niles and Amanda bid him farewell at the doors to the palace courtyard. Three black cars hum outside on the gravel, waiting to chauffeur Connor and his small entourage: a pair of palace advisors, North, a larger than usual security detail. Connor can’t help but wish that his mother and his brother were coming with him, although to what end, he’s not exactly sure.

“Remember: stay calm and be honest,” Amanda says, her tone businesslike and composed. “I don’t doubt you will field some difficult questions, but you have our support behind you.”

The way she speaks makes Connor wish he had been given a lot more media training. 

In contrast, Niles looks concerned, a tight line worn in between his brows. 

“Good luck,” he says. Beneath his practised, serious manner runs a little stream of emotion, a trembling betrayal that he’s not as unfeeling about all this as some might expect him to be. 

Niles holds out his hand—proffering a handshake, polite and formal. And then, before Connor has a chance to accept, like a thought that has been floating at the back of his mind, he throws his extended arm around Connor and pulls him into a hug.

Connor can’t remember the last time that his brother hugged him. It’s been ten years, perhaps, maybe more, and at first, he can’t help the way in which his shoulders stiffen. 

“I’m proud of you,” Niles mutters at Connor’s ear, low enough that no one else will be able to hear. “You can do this. We need you to do this.”

Connor relaxes into the unexpected contact, raising his arm to clasp his brother’s shoulder. Even though he’s sure there’s no room left for new emotions in the well of his chest, a bloom of sadness sings for his brother, stuck in the palace with his duty and his dignity.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you.”

And they part, the briefest and quietest of moments passed between them. If their mother has anything else to say, she doesn’t say it. 

Connor nods his last farewell.

As Connor settles into the car, the nerves that roll inside him are like nothing he’s ever felt before. Tension sinks through his stomach and down into his hips, sparking out into his fingertips, boiling across the soles of his feet. He knows there must be a part of him that is excited about seeing Hank, but it’s buried deep down, diamond-bright beneath the pressure.

North slides into the seat beside him. 

He’s grateful for her presence as they pull away from the palace, cool and familiar as she swipes through documents on her tablet. They haven’t had much time to speak over the past few days, but the anger that she had directed towards him in the White House seems to have cooled to little more than a simmer. If he closes his eyes and forgets, they could be anywhere at all: driving through sunny foreign streets following a diplomat’s invitation; racing for the airport to catch a flight home. 

Connor tips his head back and tries not to let the nerves burn a hole in his chest.

A moment passes. North’s voice sounds over the rumble of tires on the road.

“Connor?”

He turns to look at her. He’s not sure how long she’s been watching him, pulled away from her iron focus on her emails, but her expression has had time to grow soft. Connor wishes he could read her mind. He knows this isn’t the time for apologies, or to start repairing the trust lying broken between them. But there’s something gentle and earnest in North’s face that makes Connor think their relationship—both professional and friendly—might not be as damaged as he had previously assumed.

“Did you think you’d end up here?” North asks. 

The question hits him hard, forcing the whirlwind of the last few days to sweep through him anew. The crush of discovery, the ache in Hank’s voice when he had dismissed him from his rooms. Anger and disbelief at every turn, the hard lines of his mother’s face.

And then Hank’s speech, world-shifting, tipping their entire existence on its axis. 

“No,” he answers, truthfully. 

North makes a noise of agreement. “I didn’t either.”

He’s not sure whether she’s talking about him, or herself, or both of them.

The car begins to slow as they pull past the first smatterings of interested crowds; a little further along and there are metal barriers placed on the kerbside. They round a corner and there are people pressed into the narrow space on the pavement, craning to get a good look inside the cars as they pass, as if it’s a parade, as if they’re a spectacle. 

Connor does his best not to look out of the window. He focuses instead on the pale twist of his hands in his lap, and tries to keep his breath from escaping the shuddering confines of his lungs.

“There are crowds lining Vauxhall Bridge,” North says quietly, paraphrasing something on the screen in front of her. “We’re redirecting to the embassy’s private entrance.”

“Is it bad?” Connor’s voice comes out sounding small and scared. He imagines baying mobs, hard words flying at him over the concrete. 

“Bad?” North asks, frowning. “No, I— Didn’t your mother say anything?”

He tries to recall his mother’s precise words, comments about the positive swing of public opinion on both sides of the ocean, that allowing Hank and Connor to continue their relationship would be the best thing for all of them. 

All the same, he’s been taught from a young age about the importance of tradition. He’s spent his life picking at the fabric of their institution, poking holes in some attempt to allow the light of modernity to shine through. He’s rebelled in his own small ways, moving away to university despite his mother’s wishes, choosing not to live in the palace. Hell, he’s come out in the public eye and openly dated “unsuitable” men, men without peerages or swathes of land to their name.

Perhaps he’s viewed as a livewire, sparking and unpredictable against the icy reliability of his older brother. It’s kept him popular, it makes him relevant. But he’s never done anything remotely close to this. 

“No, Connor, it’s not bad,” North says, with a short shake of her head. “Look. They’re here for you.”

Slowly, Connor turns his head to look through the smoky glass of the car window. The pavements are filled with people. Some of them are waving flags—blue and white and red, the occasional flicker of stars amongst the intersecting lines of the Union Jack; some of them are holding hastily painted signs. Connor can’t read all of them, but the ones he can make out send the sound of his own heartbeat rushing like thunder between his ears. 

At the front of the crowd, a sign hangs over the barrier. A picture of Hank and Connor, so familiar now, staring into each other’s eyes beneath the navy DC sky. Daubed across the photograph are three words, shining white: _Love And Kindness_. Connor’s chest grows tight. 

“Okay.” He puts the pad of his thumb between his teeth and bites down, hard enough to hurt. “God. Okay.”

North lays her hand briefly on his forearm.

Less than a minute later, they turn off the road and between a set of tall gates. The American embassy is a huge, plate glass cube set on the banks of the Thames; the high sunlight reflects off the uninterrupted stretches of windows, making them glimmer, white and gold. Two sides of the building are decorated with matte silver outcrops, metal waves that look like sails or the water-worn remnants of bone.

Their convoy drives through a sunken entrance that takes them beneath the main building, a private car park filled with sleek service cars and other expensive-looking vehicles. As they head inside, Connor’s stomach has knotted itself so tight that he’s not even sure he’s feeling properly anymore. He’s examining cauterised nerve endings with numb fingers, the sensation turned up to such a high frequency that it barely registers anymore. 

Palace security flanks him, silent and observant. He’s here, finally, and there’s no turning back.

The inside of the embassy is far more spartan than the flashy outside: bright and spare, white stone, austere black furnishings. The representative who greets them is conspicuously polite, smiling benignly and directing them towards their destination as if they’re just another group of ambassadors looking for a tour. Although he knows the courtesy is forced, Connor is glad for the unassuming treatment. Any semblance of normality is welcome, a brief respite before all the eyes of the public turn on him.

They walk through the main foyer and into a narrower corridor, North a few steps ahead and in deep, strategic discussion with their guide. Connor knows he should do his best to tune into their conversation, to keep himself as informed as possible about any changes in the day’s schedule, but their words barely register.

Connor wants to ask about Hank. 

He doesn’t even know if Hank is here yet. Will they have time to talk before they face the world? Will Hank shake his hand before their expressionless security teams, like they haven’t spent the most intimate of moments together? As if Connor hasn’t memorised every line of Hank’s body?

He holds his questions back. He’s afraid of how his words might leave him—a high, shaky stream, unprofessional and desperate—and he deems it better just to stay quiet.

When they reach the end of the corridor, North takes a step back to fall in line with Connor again. 

“They’ve opened up one of these boardrooms for us,” North explains as the embassy representative opens a tall, polished door and gestures for them to enter. “We can prepare here and then the conference will be—oh.”

The room is already full of people.

Black suits, quiet chatter, a feeling of purpose and drive in the air. Tired, travel-worn faces.

Connor’s gaze is drawn, immediately, to the man standing in the middle of the room.

Connor would know him in any crowd. In the midst of thousands, he would recognise the broadness of his shoulders, the way the light plays with the silver in his hair. Over any clamour he would know his voice, the low, resonant timbre. 

At long last.

Hank has been on Connor’s mind so much over the past few days. His face has been so constant in the quiet corners of his noisy thoughts that, for a moment, it seems entirely possible that his appearance here is no more than a mirage. A fantasy, the flicker of Connor’s imagination almost made real. 

But then Hank turns to face him, and their eyes meet across the busy room, and Connor knows that he cannot possibly be dreaming. As sure as a sunbeam, Hank’s gaze strikes him; he’s pierced by that sharp, clear blue. Connor remembers those eyes in a sudden rush, hooded with desire, softened by emotion. And now, creased at the corners by a smile that could light the whole room. 

They regard each other for a long moment, and the weight of the past few days settles into the growing silence. The bravery of what Hank has done, the knowledge of all the ways in which their relationship has changed. Changes that have taken place without them, mostly, playing pieces pushed around the arena of international diplomacy.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness.” North speaks from beside him, switching neatly back to his proper title in the presence of company. “I must have misunderstood, I didn’t realise the American delegation were here as well.”

Her tone is clipped, annoyed in some unspecified direction about the slip up in their planning. Connor doesn’t look towards her. He only has eyes for Hank. Maybe their hearts are beating loud enough for everyone to hear.

“It’s okay.”

Silence falls around them—a spinning coin taking its final few rotations on a table before it falls, flat and quiet. The last few eyes turn towards Connor, standing in the doorway.

It’s Hank who speaks first.

“Give us a few minutes, would you?”

His voice is mostly calm. A tremble, the shuddering of a layline, moves beneath his words. 

One of his aides stands beside him, anxiously checking the clipboard that she has clasped to her chest. 

“Mr President, we’ll need to discuss—”

As Hank turns his head towards her, he breaks his eye contact with Connor. It feels like the snapping of a tightrope, the tumbling of silver threads back towards the earth. 

“Go and set up without us,” Hank continues. “Please.”

His tone is forceful without being sharp, a clear insistence that his words are not to be argued with. There’s a low muttering amongst Hank’s staff and they start to gather up the few items that are placed on the tables at the edge of the room. They file out of a door on the other side of the room, which presumably leads through to the hall where the conference will be held. As the door opens, the clatter and buzz of the press setting up floats in through the gap. 

With the room half full, Hank feels close enough to reach out and touch. Just standing there, watching Connor, that high, electric pull crackling in the quiet air between them. Connor can’t help but feel mollified by the presence of the palace staff behind him, all of his mother’s security waiting for him to make his next move. It feels too strange and too vulnerable for that next move to be running into Hank’s waiting arms.

As if she can read his mind, North appears at Connor’s side, sending him a quick glance that says: _Us too?_ Connor nods gratefully in reply.

“We’ll be just through here,” she clarifies. 

It seems to take an age for the remaining staff to vacate the room. Connor watches as they go, and the thought of being left alone with Hank vibrates through his veins. Alone with Hank at last, in this bright, bizarre new world where they no longer have to hide what has grown between them.

Finally, the door clicks shut. A long note of silence sings between the two of them, wavering in the sunlight streaming in from the windows. 

There are words to be spoken, hours of them, words that could stretch to cover the ocean. From the fray, Connor pulls just one.

“Hank.”

It’s the only thing on his lips. Hank smiles at the sound.

“Connor.”

It feels so good to hear Hank say his name. They’ve held each other’s names in their mouths for months, worn them out of their formal shells until they shine, two golden secrets.

“I’ve missed you,” Hank adds. 

And that’s enough. It’s all that Connor needs, it unroots his feet and sends him the one, two, three steps into Hank’s arms. 

Connor buries his face into Hank’s chest, yearning into his embrace, creasing the sharply pressed fabric of his shirt. He smells so familiar, like woodsmoke, like leather, the dark notes of his cologne swirling above the sunlight baked right down into the cracks of his skin. Connor could happily stay like this for an eternity, breathing Hank in.

They give each other a long moment of stillness, waiting for their hearts to hammer into a matching rhythm. 

“I missed you,” Connor says, returning Hank’s words and closing the space between their mouths. 

He kisses Hank, his hands curling in the back of his jacket. It’s hard and desperate at first, his whole body strung tight by the unbelievable reality of being in Hank’s arms, finally, finally, as if he thought that it would never happen. But then Hank cups Connor’s jaw in one big hand and lets their kiss grow soft, as tender and tentative as if it is the first time. 

When Hank pulls away, it barely shatters the magic that shimmers between them.

“Are you alright?” Hank asks, speaking into the millimetre between their mouths. His tone is calm and so caring that it makes Connor want to cry.

“Yes,” Connor replies, “yes. I’m so glad you’re here. I didn’t know when I’d see you.”

Hank looks a little taken aback by Connor’s answer. His forehead furrows, and Connor watches as the pale blue of his eyes grows shadowed by the knot between his brows.

“Didn’t anyone tell you I was here?”

Connor shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I don’t think—”

It’s hard to vocalise. He swallows, placing different words onto the tip of his tongue. Hank watches him, his face patient. 

“I don’t think I factored into the palace’s plans that much.” Connor knows how ridiculous that must sound, and he does his best to elaborate. “It’s not me doing this, not really. It’s _Prince Connor_ , Prince Connor of the House of Stern. It’s the reputation of an institution that’s at stake, not the feelings of one person. If the palace thought my family would be damaged too much by letting us be together then…” He pauses, barely wanting to speak the thought. “Then we wouldn’t be here.”

“Hm.” Hank nods, understanding. “But here we are.”

Connor curls into Hank again, his hands making fists against his chest. 

Here they are. So close to grasping the previously unthinkable, a hair’s breadth away from no longer having to conduct their relationship beneath murky waters. Connor knows that the next few months—years, even—will not be easy, but the fact that he will be able to do it with Hank, for Hank, makes everything burn so bright that he can barely believe it’s real. 

Hank’s hand passes over the back of Connor’s head, smoothing his hair, warm fingers brushing against his nape.

“What about you?” Connor asks.

Hank’s shoulders shift in a loose shrug.

“I think I’ll have to resign in some capacity.”

He says it so casually that Connor is certain he’s misheard. 

“What?”

Connor tips his head back to study Hank’s features. He’s looking back at him, focused and still, and there’s no sadness or hesitation in his eyes. 

“They’ll find out soon enough that neither of us committed any crimes.” Hank pauses, tilting his head thoughtfully to one side. “But that’s not really the point, not where I’m involved. I’m an elected official. I spent a year lying to the people who elected me.”

“Plenty of politicians lie,” Connor says. 

His words garner a short laugh from Hank. The sound rumbles through Hank’s chest and into Connor’s own.

“You’re right. Thing is, not many politicians lie about having year-long affairs with princes. And if they do, they don’t manage to hide it for very long.”

Connor kisses the side of Hank’s mouth, wordless. He knows that Hank is right, but he also knows that there are slews of politicians in parliaments all over the world who have lied and mistreated their delegations and carried on with their jobs as if nothing was ever wrong. Hank is more principled than all of those people put together. That knowledge makes Connor’s heart swell strangely behind his ribcage—fond and guilty all at once.

“I’m sorry.” He sinks the words into Hank’s sternum, so deep and quiet that he has to repeat himself. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey. Don’t be.” Hank passes his hand between the two of them, sliding his index finger and thumb beneath Connor’s chin. “I knew I wouldn’t be able to continue to hold my position in the same way if we were together. I mean, if we were gonna be together _properly_ , like I want to be.” 

Hank turns Connor’s gaze upwards to meet his own.

“It’s all for you, Connor.”

The devotion, the reverence. The reality of all that Hank has given up for Connor. It closes around his heart, and he feels luckier than he has ever done in his life. He doesn’t think there is a response profound enough to accurately communicate how he feels, the way his chest soars like he might take flight. 

Hank speaks against Connor's temple. “I love you.”

Connor will never get tired of hearing those words. They sink deeper into one another. 

“I love you too.”

A long moment sweeps by. Their breathing synchronises, Hank rests the scratchy warmth of his beard against Connor’s cheek. They kiss, too, sweet and unrushed, ignoring the approach of the moment when they will have to step out in front of a waiting, clamouring world. With the thought of Hank sitting by his side, the fire of Connor’s nerves flickers down a notch.

“Did you enjoy my speech?” Hank asks, breaking the silence. Connor can tell that he’s been turning the question over and over in his head, waiting for the right moment to ask. They’ve spoken about Hank’s speeches before, and Connor has disclosed, in not so many words, how Hank’s voice, his effortless command of an audience, sends shivers of excitement down Connor’s spine.

This time, the question is different. There’s a vulnerability as Hank speaks, something tentative. 

Connor moves his hands over the back of Hank’s jacket.

“Very much.”

“I know broadcasting a speech to the entire world isn’t the most personal way of telling someone that you want to be with them,” Hank says. 

“Not the most intimate of confessions, no.” Connor laughs, dizzy with the reminder that this man loves him enough to bare his soul before millions. “I don’t mind. It was romantic.”

_Romantic_ might be damning the gesture with faint praise—a love shouted from the rooftops if there ever was one.

“I’m so glad you watched it.”

At those words, Connor pulls back a touch, his eyes finding Hank’s face. He looks troubled, something twisting beneath his features.

“Of course,” Connor says, firmly. “I wouldn’t have done anything else.”

“I just thought—” Hank pauses, and Connor thinks about kissing the concerned crease of his brow. “I was worried after what I said to you that morning. I was scared, and I was harsh—you didn’t do anything wrong. Y’know… I thought you might’ve changed your mind about us.”

_God._ The mere thought of turning Hank away makes a sick heaviness sink in Connor’s chest. Never, not in any lifetime. He is certain that, even if nothing positive had come of their discovered secret, that he would have missed Hank for the rest of his life. 

This is it, after all.

“But you haven’t changed your mind, have you?” Hank asks, and Connor can tell from the lightness beginning to spread across his features that Connor’s face must betray his answer. 

In response, he raises up on his toes slightly and kisses every inch of Hank that he can reach, his lips, the high crests of his cheekbones, his trembling eyelids.

“I understand why you said what you did,” Connor says, his thumb tracing the line of Hank’s jaw. “We didn’t know what the consequences were going to be; we didn’t know if any of this was going to be possible. You were scared. I understand.”

Hank smiles, and Connor knows he has never loved anything more than Hank and the curve of his mouth.

“Besides,” Connor continues, kissing the corner of Hank’s lips, “my mind was made up a long time ago.”

“We’re going to change the world, Connor,” Hank says—proud, dazed, enamoured. “No one has ever made history like this.”

“I suppose not,” Connor replies. “Lucky us.”

Lucky them indeed. How fortunate they are that the universe has turned itself in their favour, that fate has placed them in such a time that they might be granted the gift of each other. That they might be given the opportunity to stand here, arms around each other, and to live without fear. Something says that they were always meant to be, no matter what.

“They’ll be waiting,” Hank says. As he speaks, he loosens his arms from around Connor’s waist. “We should go.”

Without the weight of their embrace, Connor can feel his nerves beginning to swoop upwards once again, crackling and sharp behind his heart. They take a few moments to straighten themselves up, making sure that shirts are uncrumpled and hair is neatly in place. 

The door to the conference room seems to gleam ominously at the edges.

“I’m nervous,” Connor says. His voice is low and honest and scared. 

Hank pauses. Then he reaches out to the side and takes Connor’s hand, intertwining their fingers together. 

“How about now?” he asks.

Connor focuses on the warmth of Hank’s hand, the soft pressure as he squeezes their palms together. He’s not sure if it lessens his anxieties, but instead it brings up something to bolster him, a reminder that Hank is by his side now, no matter the twists in the road ahead.

“Not so much.”

Hank smiles in reply. Connor reaches out and pushes open the door.

The conference room appears in a sudden rush of noise and light—flashing cameras, raised voices and above it all, the roar of sudden, wild applause. Connor focuses on the feeling of Hank’s hand in his own. 

As they sit, he tries not to think about what is to come, questions and answers laid out for scrutiny, words slotting into their place in the world, words that they will not be able to take back. Instead, he thinks about how very lucky they both are. From that first moment in a dark White House office, with Hank’s lips pressed against the inside of Connor’s wrist, they were gifted something precious, something rare. Perhaps they guarded it too closely, perhaps they were frightened by the strength of it.

But Connor is glad, for the first time, that they were discovered. He’s spent so long living in a tentative, secretive present that looking forward to the future feels so new and exciting that he can hardly believe it. Now they can let their relationship out into the light, to grow strong and take root and flower. To flourish. 

They will make a name for themselves, write pages in the history books, leave a bright, colourful stamp on the world. The Prince and the President. 

Hank squeezes Connor’s hand. Connor squeezes back. Together at the end and the beginning of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone who has read and engaged with this fic! if you have left comments or kudos, or messaged me on twitter to talk about the characters, or sent me art, or recommended this to your friends and then told me about it, THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU! this fic has been a true work of love and i have absolutely adored the (more than) a year that i have spent with the prince and his president.
> 
> chapter 13 will be an epilogue of sorts. i plan for it to be shorter than the other chapters and to have it out quicker but if you know anything about me... you'll know that my plans rarely come to fruition. 
> 
> thank you again!

**Author's Note:**

> come and find me on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/andpersephone)


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